Farewell to the Place
by MacMhuirich
Summary: McGee takes a vacation which he spends on the remote isle of Uist. A dip in the Atlantic has its repercussions.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: To those who read my other WIPs: I realize I have 2 more unfinished stories. This one, however, is written for the Myths & Legends Challenge on NFA. So I have a deadline to respect and so this one needs to be finished first. It's nearly completed anyhow. I hope you enjoy reading it.**

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><p><strong>Farewell to the Place<strong>

_Soraidh Leis An Ait'  
>Farewell to the place<br>__(Ishbel MacAskill)_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>_  
><em>

He was running as fast as his legs would allow. He'd been doing that for several blocks, now. But his suspect was an athlete. He had to be! The man seemed to possess flying feet!

Running was one thing; maintaining a sprint for an approximate duration of 20 minutes was another.

Where was the rest of the team when you needed them? Oh yes! Of course... Ziva and Tony were chasing another guy when the suspects had bailed out of their vehicle after a head-on crash which had ended a high-speed pursuit. The men had continued their flight on foot.

Tim chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Where was the team leader? Ah! There he was! His eyes had just caught the sight of a shoe appearing from around a corner. Gibbs...couldn't quite keep up with the fast pace.

The suspect had taken McGee and Gibbs through almost every garden and backyard, sending them jumping or scaling fences in his attempt to evade capture.

Special Agent McGee was huffing and puffing by now. His chest was hurting and he was flagging. He'd long since given up thinking about keeping a steady breathing rhythm. He'd been training hard over the past year, ever since he'd been recommended to shed some pounds at the last periodical health examination. He was so proud at his achievement of recovering his old lanky frame from his youth. His runs had equally served to accumulate a comfortable dose of stamina and helped him pass the compulsory physical fitness tests.

Yes, he'd set off with mucho gusto after their suspect. He'd found he felt this new confidence that he'd get his man. And, what better chance to show off to his team his brilliant athletic performance?

Only...

What Tim hadn't anticipated, was the other man's own prowess and ability to keep eluding him.

In sporting events, this steeple chase would be compared to an exciting and nail-biting match between two worthy opponents. However, as the pursuit progressed and saw Tim struggling to keep on the other runner's heels, he wasn't that sure anymore of a positive outcome.

And yet, the distance was closing, even if the going got tougher as the runners soon found themselves in a bustling section of West Chevy Chase.

Oops! Another thing one didn't have to worry about at an athletics contest were such obstacles as signposts and pedestrians – he barely managed to skirt a mother and her toddler with the grace of a toreador dancing and prancing around a bull in the arena – and...and...cars?

CARS!

As his quarry veered to the right and across the street, Tim followed suit suddenly finding himself in the path of an oncoming vehicle. His eyes widened in a mix of abject fear and surprise, and, too late to jump out of the way, he twisted his upper body to the left with both his hands shot out sideways in an attempt to stop the car. It was a futile gesture born from a reflex. There was no way the driver could stop the car in time or avoid the crossing man.

As for Tim, the image of the driver's horrified eyes was the last thing he saw before white hot searing pain assaulted his body at the impact. His senses experienced an overload as he was being scooped up and tossed airborne for what seemed like 10 feet to come down again and slam into the windshield with a sickening thud before rolling off the hood, his head violently connected with the ground.

Then, the overwhelming shock to his body and the ensuing pain won out and he felt himself mercifully pulled under the black cloak of oblivion.

- -.-. -. . .

_**Uist – The Outer Hebrides (Scotland)  
>4 months later.<strong>_

"Well hey, there." Tim greeted the gray grazing the scrawny tufts of grass that dotted the machair.

He slowly ambled closer so as not to frighten the animal. It was clearly quite domesticated, for it lazily lifted its head as it kept on munching, making scrunching noises.

Pricking its ears forward, the pony patiently waited for the lonely man to approach.

Tim stooped to grab a fistful of grass and inched closer, muttering soothing words under his breath.

"Eeeeeeasy booooyyy. Such a goooood boy. Got some grass for you. Brrrrr..."

The pony stretched its neck to investigate the gift and, deciding it was safe to accept it from the soft spoken man, it lipped the grass and chewed it while Tim moved his hand to the animal's neck and started patting and stroking it.

As he talked to the animal, his fingers played with the forelock. Still whispering to the animal, he rubbed the poll and the jaw and let the pony muzzle his hand.

The animal pushed its head against his side, bringing him slightly off balance, but then Tim's equine friend poked its nose against Tim's hand again while its ears danced a lively choreography. A calm and positive mutual bond of sorts seemed to have been forged between the two as they stood there, surrounded by nothing but the beautiful machair on one side and the vast ocean on the other. By all appearances, they could just as well be alone in this universe.

Then, the spell was broken, and, giving the pony a final pat, Tim moved on.

A beautiful day.

He took a deep breath of the silty air and gazed up at the clear blue sky and across the deep blue ocean as his thoughts took him 3,000 miles across this expanse of water. He let the wind ruffle his hair; let the sun caress his face...

He hadn't felt this relaxed for a long time. He was amazed how he'd settled down to this – for him – alien pattern of ease the moment he'd set foot on this island. His nerves had been in tatters when he left DC. He'd been in the dumps when he got the news his sick leave had been extended due to him still being plagued by the headaches. They hadn't even allowed him in part-time and staying at his apartment had only served in driving him insane with boredom.

Ducky didn't need to do this, but he'd done it anyway.

Tim ruefully smiled at the recollection.

One bad evening, which saw Tim stooping in reverence to the porcelain god as a result of one of his debilitating headaches, Ducky had been there, looking after him. As Tim, with Ducky's kind help, had dragged his frail body to the bedroom and slipped under the covers, Ducky had sat with him and surprised him with his brilliant suggestion.

- -.-. -. . .

***flashback***

"What would you think of joining me to Scotland, Timothy?"

For about 10 heartbeats, there was no answer.

Ducky waited. He'd learnt to deal with Tim by being patient in moments like these.

Then, his ears picked up a listless and a weak voice from the bed. "Why?"

"You know I spend my holidays in Scotland visiting my family. Obviously, you need a change of scenery, too. A vacation, of sorts. It will do you a wealth of good, Timothy."

A discontented grunt was the only reaction Ducky got. Tim's logic dictated him that, if he was well enough to go on a vacation, he was good enough to do his job. What better logic was there?

The good doctor, however, wasn't one to give in so easily to McGee's sometimes warped reasoning and so he went on.

"Since you remain silent, I take that as an affirmative. So that's settled then."

Tim looked up with an expression that was rather petulant and, at the same time, surprised. Ducky didn't bother to acknowledge Tim, though.

"I will book you a seat on my flight. I don't expect you to follow me around like a faithful dog, Timothy, so you are free to go and roam wherever you want to, once you get there. You probably don't want to be stuck up with an maundering old fool like me."

At that, Tim opened his mouth to disagree...

"Ducky..." ...and stopped when his eyes met Dr. Mallard's twinkling ones.

At that moment, Ducky knew he had the young man where he wanted him.

Satisfied, Ducky took a sip from his tea.

Mission accomplished.

***end flashback***


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**NCIS, DC**

"Any idea when McGee will be back?"

"Missing him so badly, Ziva?"

"Just wishing he was back at his desk. That's all."

"Oh, so you think he's been on his lazy butt long enough, do you?"

"No! I didn't mean it like that!"

"Admit it: you think he's laying it on thick, our McWussy"

"I'm sure that, if his sick leave has been extended, then it was because it was necessary."

"He's barely touched down in...whatever hole he flew to."

"Ducky." Gibbs now joined into the conversation as he came down the stairs. "Remember Ducky suggested he take this holiday in Scotland?"

"Twisted McGoo's arm, more like."

"What? Ducky used force to make McGee go with him? How...how..." Ziva scrunched her face as she sought the correct word.

"Devious?" Gibbs offered, not bothering to look either of them in the face. "And, nope, Ducky didn't literally twist Tim's arm. It's an expression, Ziver."

"You're missing him, Ziva. Can't be too hard to admit that?" Tony pushed on.

"It's been four months, Tony. Four months. Surely it doesn't take that long to recover from just a concussion?"

"It was slightly worse than just a concussion. He'd cracked that of his whilst dancing with cars. Aw! Sorry, boss! AWww!" Tony rubbed at the spot with a hurt look on his face.

"It's just...I don't like that guy from CCU. He's way too smug for a...geek. I like Tim better." Ziva continued.

Gibbs sat down behind his desk and started his daily routine: sipping at his coffee as he booted his computers. "Just bear with him, Ziver. He's only at McGee's desk temporarily."

At that moment, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing the object of Ziva's annoyance.

"I just don't get it why McGee is well enough to go on a vacation but not to work."

Tony sighed and tossed the files he'd just picked up back on his desk with a little more force than he'd intended.

"Be-cauzzzzz he still neeeeedzzz the rest. He's hurting, Ziva. And, believe me 'cause I'm speaking from experience, he wouldn't be doing much good, right now. Like he's eaten too much space cake. He's still on medication and his brain would only be doing a part-time job. Is why."

From the corner of his eyes, he caught a smirk on the ad interim's face and he pointed an angry finger at the other man, before turning a death glare in the man's direction.

"You! What's so funny?"

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked.

"But..."

"Back down! Now!"

With a face like a thundercloud, Tony sat down.

McGee's replacement grinned mischievously but quickly masked it when Gibbs threw him la look.

A silence like a tomb reigned in the bullpen. It didn't take long before the oppressive mood started to grate on Gibbs' nerves and with a sigh that went as deep as the lower floor, he pushed himself up.

"DiNozzo, David..." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the break room.

"I know you don't like that...guy. And we all know McGee well enough to imagine how he feels about not being able to do his job. Ducky has done what is best for Tim. He's no use to us as long as he's not given a clean bill of health!"

"Last Wednesday, he told me he'd be back on Monday..." Tony said. "And he sounded and looked okay. He really did!"

"Where did you see him?" Gibbs asked.

"Home, of course. His apartment!"

"Tony'd called him and McGee had asked us over. He'd even cooked for us. Spaghetti." Ziva added.

"He seemed excited to come back, boss." Tony said.

"Yes. And after dinner, we watched a movie together. The three of us on his bed." Ziva filled in.

"Though it took him less than 10 minutes to drop off. It wasn't that the movie was that boring... Anyway, in no time, he was drooling on Ziva's shoulder from where, I'm sure, he had this unparallelled view of her boobs. If I hadn't known McPrude better, I'd have though he was faking it to be that close to Ziva's...uh... I'm still surprised she didn't kill him then and there. Come to think of it, she wouldn't have to. He seemed dead to the world already. There was no way we could arouse him."

Ziva glared at him, but he went on, undeterred.

"Even dropped his hand on her...Awch!"

This time, Ziva couldn't contain herself any longer and she kicked his shins, effectively shutting him up.

Gibbs snorted.

"I believe Gibbs got the message, Tony, so thank you for not going into further details, yes?"

"So we just left him. Well, Ziva did suggest she stripp... Jeez! Zeevaaaah! Will you just stop that?"

"Is there really no way stopping you?" Then she directed her gaze to Gibbs and explained. "We covered him and left."

"Okay. Seriously: what happened to McGee, boss, that we didn't see him on Monday?"

"A medical check-up. That's what happened to McGee. Obviously he was thought unable to return to duty. Not even desk duty." Gibbs shrugged. "So Ducky advised Tim to join him to Scotland. Change of scenery, as he put it. Spurr of the moment thing."

"For how long?" The question was put simultaneously by the two agents, which brought a smile to the team leader's face.

"For as long as Ducky is away. Which is generally for a period of two weeks."

That was all it took to produce a moaning duet.

No way were they going to survive another week with McGee's replacement.

- -.-. -. . .

**North Uist, Outer Hebrides, Scotland**

McGee was standing on top of a large dune, taking in the long stretch of pristine beach as white and of a beauty equalling a Caribbean beach. White breakers had come all the way from Labrador to finally die here, on this empty beach. After only a moment's lingering, he bent down to take off his hiking boots and wool socks, and curled his toes in the soft sand. He stood there for a moment longer, with closed eyes as he let the salty breeze, coming from across the ocean - from where his home was – ruffle his hair and tickle the little hairs on his bare arms and legs. He took deep breaths as if replenishing his lungs with the oxygen rich air.

Then, with a contented sigh and a whoop he took off, running down, or rather bounding down the dune like a schoolkid on a field trip to the beach. He nearly tripped as his feet sank ankle deep in the mushy sand and as the added complication of gravity took over. He was smiling, which soon turned into joyous laughter.

Down on the beach, he quickly stripped. Even here, right in the middle of nowhere – at least, to his norms – he was still his fastidious self and he placed his shoes, with the socks inside them, neatly together next to his backpack. Next he stepped out of his shorts and folded them over the shoes, to be topped by his polo-shirt...and the little yellow floret and sprig of bog cotton he'd picked from the machair.

Tim wrapped his arms around his torso as he shivered a little from just standing in his swimming shorts, and spared a moment to gaze at the blue ocean and the white capped frothy surf.

A Ralph Waldo Emerson quote suddenly sprang to mind. "Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air."

He grinned at the thought that there could hardly be a more fitting quote and that he would take as much advantage of this by doing exactly that.

No longer able to contain himself, he ran to the waterline and into the sea. Leaping over the little waves in the shallows until the water was waist deep. Only then did he take a deep breath, before plunging in the crystal clear water to emerge spluttering and hollering from the shock. He wasn't exactly used to this gasp-inducingly cold.

After a while, he got quite used to the frigid temperature and found he could enjoy the swimming.

He was in for a minor scare when he noticed he'd got the company of seals, their doggies heads bobbing in the waves as they watched this human intruder in their watery realm.

Tim couldn't wait to tell the others about his swims with the seals, once he'd get back in DC.

He was breaststroking back for the beach when, suddenly, he felt something bump into him. A little freaked out at first, he tried to calm down, thinking it was probably a seal. Seals didn't hurt humans, did they? He felt about with his hand until he touched something. Something soft... It certainly didn't feel like the sleek body of a seal. As if he'd ever felt one in his life. He gave a nervous laugh. But then he tensed, sensing something felt very wrong and he got scared. His breath hitched and his heart skipped a few beats as the fear mounted.

Tim was trying to swim back ashore when he felt his leg getting entangled into something. Probably a fishing net, he thought. To his utmost horror, however, a pale face eyeballed him from beneath the surface. It scared him witless and, in a full blown panic, he thrust out his hands to push...the...the...thing out of the way.

This couldn't be happening, he thought. This was a nightmare.

He kicked his legs, but all he accomplished was to have a puffy, waxy corpse entwined in a fishing net, nudging him as if it was trying to make it clear to him, it was going to stick to him, no matter what.

All his struggling only served to get him caught like a fish in the net himself and he and his mute companion sank below the waves, with the seals as the only witnesses to this unfolding tragedy.

Tim was fighting for dear life in the surf as the undercurrent tugged at both him and the bloated remains in the net. He briefly managed to get to the surface and gulp some air before being pulled under again. And so it went on and on in this vein. Sometimes surfacing and getting a of mouthful of seawater for his trouble, then submerging again. If only he could disengage himself from the net...and its gruesome occupant.

The meaning of rule number 9 - never go anywhere without your knife - never felt more incongruous. Tim now, more than ever, wished he had it strapped around his leg, like divers did. Like Ziva.

About to give up, he finally succeeded in freeing himself from the net and his grisly partner. Utterly exhausted, he barely made it out of the water. Pulling himself further up the beach, he promptly vomited and then collapsed in the sand.

The corpse soon washed ashore to end up right beside him, not about to leave him alone.

The seals' heads still peeped at the two still forms in the sand.

The pony, its manes being whipped by the wind and it s jaws still working on the grass, gave a soft whinny as its gaze was drawn to the gentle man that had tried to communicate only a short while ago.

- -.-. -. . .

Mungo MacAskill looked up from the rock pools where he was gathering seaweed for the little patch of machair he used to grow his vegetables on. He'd been collecting kelp and other seaweed for so long, just like his father and his grandfather – in fact, his family – had been doing before him.

Of course, these days, he could easily buy the processed stuff in bags. That and the blood-fish-and-bone-meal he also used as a fertilizer for his sister's well-kept garden at her B&B.

Now, he stretched himself to his full length which was well over 6.5 feet, putting his hands in his sides as he worked out the kinks in his back. His gaze traveled to the grassy headland where he spotted a white pony. This was odd, he thought. The animal had been standing there for a while already. It simply hadn't budged – as if it had rooted there. A statue.

He squinted and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun.

Finally, he made up his mind to go and investigate.

He walked one of his ponies to a small barn, harnessed it in front of a cart – still the best suited vehicle for the job of seaweed gathering – and made for the stretch of long, white, sandy beach where he could see the white pony.

As he got closer, he noticed the still forms on the beach. First he came upon the pile of neatly stacked clothes which he put in the cart before moving on. A tiny yellow flower sat entangled in the laces of a boot, while another fell to the ground. Mungo extracted the one from the boot and peered at it before flicking it away. Ragwort. A common plant he knew well as the machair was covered all in yellow with it. A harmful one for the cattle, too, which was why there were projects aiming to eradicate this weed.

As he approached the bodies, it didn't take an expert to see that one of them was beyond help. He knelt down beside the half naked man and carefully turned him over. He shook his head ruefully. A young man in the prime of his life.

Old Mungo MacAskill bent closer to check for a sign of life, happy to find it was still there. The man's chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

He checked for a pulse – fast but equally steady – when all of a sudden, a pair of green eyes opened wide and the man became frantic, breathing harshly, before turning on his side and started to retch.

MacAskill scrunched his face in sympathy as he supported the other's heaving shoulders. A sound made him look up, his gaze automatically drawn to the pony on the headland above him.

The animal reared and landed, planting both forefeet firmly on the ground, with a thud the man couldn't hear but could well imagine, as if to make a statement. Then, it whinnied again, tossed its head and, manes flowing, cantered off, away from the dune's edge.

The old crofter would've sworn the pony had led him to this man, waiting till he was cared for.

He turned his attention back to the injured man. Injured? He checked again and still couldn't detect any visible injuries. He felt the man sag in his arms and MacAskill sighed. Time to get him to his croft. But what about the other...thing?

The tall – very tall – old Uist-man picked McGee up like he would a babe and gently loaded him in the cart. Hm. Too bad he couldn't wrap the poor soul into a blanket. Well, couldn't be helped: he'd have the lad tucked in bed soon enough.

He now squinted at the...corpse. What to do about that?

Nah. There was no question about putting this body with his young man and he made quick work by dragging the corpse further up the beach, well over the high-tide mark.

First things first: see the injured man settled. Only then, would he go down to the village and report the finding and the location of the dead body.

He clucked his pony into motion and, humming to himself, took Timothy McGee to his small, traditional croft. He chuckled: the one the tourists loved.

Come to think of it. Hadn't he seen this man before? When was that again. Oh yes! That was it! He'd come to ask directions to the Barpa Langass cairn, and the Pobull Fhinn stone circle. Tourists... It was curious and a wee bit amusing how tourists showed an odd interest in all things ancient, mystical and spiritual. Like they expected something otherworldly to occur any moment. Not that they were true believers. Now, that made him truly smile. Little did they know about the islanders' superstitious beliefs. Most duly went to Church on Sundays. Honoring the Christian God. But others, like him, still called on the old Gods. Brighid, Lugh, Manannàn... His son had even left the islands to pursue an academic career, teaching about the Gaels of yore and today; about the ancient civilization of the British Isles and their beliefs; the many facets of the Celtic language and culture.

A particularly strong gust of wind jerked him back from his musings. Why had it suddenly gone so dark? Why was the ocean in a roar? Tim, lying on his back in the cart, let out a long moan which instantly drew the old man to his side, even if he was occasionally casting a wary eye at the clouded sky and raging sea. Not that he was in any way scared. It was merely a strange occurrence.

Green eyes opened and searched the old man's.

"Mannn..." Tim tried, weakly waving his arm before it fell back on the boards.

Mungo MacAskill's eyes went wide at that and he looked this way and that, not knowing what to do.

Then, it hit him. This couldn't be. A naked man with a corpse on a beach, the ragwort flowers, the horse with the flowing manes, the squall which came out of the blue... These just couldn't be coincidences.

"Manannàn..." He breathed almost reverently. He was meeting Manannàn Mac Lìr! In the flesh! The Lord of the Sea, the God of the Sea and the Tides! Son of Lìr, the Master of the Waves. He looked back to where he'd spotted the pony. "Enbarr..."

Just as suddenly as the storm had hit, it had gone again.

Tim, a little calmer now as rational thought and the agent in him returned, swallowed and tried again, pushing himself up on an elbow.

"Man. Th' waza man...wi'...me...dead... Mus'ca' p..p'leasss...Mussss..." He gingerly lay back, eyes tightly shut, and pressed his hands against his temples. Gah! His head was hurting...again...for a change. He let out a groan with frustration. And there he was thinking he'd got rid of it by now.

Old Mungo MacAskill didn't quite know how to keep his excitement in check.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When Tim woke up, it was with an overwhelming feeling of disorientation. Not only that. What...was...this...sound? Moreover, as he squinted and raised his head a little to see what he could glean from his surroundings, he felt warm air coming in puffs from somewhere behind him. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose as it picked up a distinct...animal scent .

A snort nearly caused him to jump out of his skin if he could from his current position, which was prone, in a rickety and creaky bed. An old, yet clean duvet covered his long frame in a low ceilinged room which was rather dim.

Raising on an elbow, he twisted his body so he could see where the sound had come from. What dark creature would he find sharing this room? He thought his heart would burst from his chest and his hand went to his waist in a reflex...to find nothing there. Okay, so he considered his Sig as a part of him – which made him think how it had ever come to this point - but it's not that he had to share his bed with the...object. As if he did!

"I always sleep with steel by my side." Now where had that 'Conan the Barbarian' quote come from? Fancy DiNozzo having shaped him into a movie buff.

It took him some anxious moments of blinking to clear his vision, only to find himself staring into a pair of dark, shining orbs with long black lashes. The eyes seemed to see right through him, leaving an uncomfortable feeling.

Unable to hold himself up in this straining position any longer, he collapsed back onto the pillow and covered his eyes in disbelief.

A horse! There was a horse poking its head through the small window behind his bed, showing a curious interest in the man lying on the bed. A lovely creature had given him the fright of his life, for God's sake! What was this thing he had with the equine race? It brought back memories from long ago, when he was an awkward fifteen year old being 'stalked' by a donkey of all the creatures on this planet! Or, more recently, when a case had taken him to Canada where all the mounties' horses displayed a special attraction to him, nudging him, bumping into him, knocking him about... They actually made him beg Gibbs to, please, let him come back to DC!

As he lay there, willing his heart to slow down to its normal pace, bits and pieces of the past events slowly returned to him, one of which rather prominently.

The _corpse_!

Again, he shot upright.

His analytical mind conjured up the state of the remains, even if he'd rather forget all about its nightmarish state. There, now! This was getting so tiresome. His breathing was quickening again, in harmony with his heart rate.

Lying down again, he tried, once more, to relax.

Man! When had his nerves become that frayed! He felt like mush and yet, rather unpleasantly, all tense at the same time.

"And a very good morning to you, lad!" A booming voice rang from somewhere close to his ear.

Tim started and let out a long groan. Not again!

On top of everything else, his head was pounding now, joining in with his noisy heart beat in an almost perfect 2/4 time signature. A hornpipe. Yahoo to that. Bless his mother for some musical education, or he wouldn't have known, else.

Tim carefully turned his head to the source of his pain and saw a weather beat face in lieu of the horse's head that had been there before. The horse hadn't changed into a man, all of a sudden, had it?

He shook the image, which was not a wise thing to do as it exacerbated his headache.

"Who...ooo...are you? Where am I?"

The old man lifted a finger to signal him to hold on a sec. He dropped away from the window leaving Tim to compose himself somewhat.

Tim listened to the receding footsteps. Then, somewhere in the house, a door creaked open. The footsteps got louder as the person approached the bedroom door, opening it and finally walking in to sit in a chair next to Tim, resting his arms on his knees and looking intently at McGee, only barely able to hide his excitement.

Mungo knew he couldn't rush things.

"First tell me how you feel, young man."

"Okay." He nodded, scratching at his upper leg under the blanket.

Then, realization struck him and his eyes opened wide. He lifted the blanket, warm air emanating from his body meeting his face, and peered underneath it, finding he was wearing unfamiliar pyjamas.

"My clothes?"

As a calming gesture, Mungo MacAskill leaned in and put a hand on Tim's shoulders.

"No worries, lad. I have them here. Right here, along with the rest of your things."

Tim gave a small shake with his head, careful not to jar it any more to aggravate his headache, and closed his eyes with a slight frown showing his incomprehension.

"Things? What things?"

The old man regarded him curiously and then Tim's brows lifted.

"Oh! You...went to the B&B I stayed, and collected my...stuff? Wait a minute...I told you what B&B...? Oh no. Not many around here. Of course..."

The other smiled and pushed himself with both hands on his knees out of the chair.

"Took the liberty to go through your pockets to find out who you are. Didn't take much detective work to find out where you stayed."

He leaned in once more, extending his hand and laughed.

"I'm Mungo MacAskill. Pleased to meet you, Timothy McGee."

Tim smiled in response and, pushing himself into a more upright position, mindful of the dull ache in the back of his skull, he shook the proffered hand.

"Likewise."

"I also found...another card? N.C.I.S.? Ye're a copper? And 'naval'"

"Eh...I am. Yeah, well... Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I've explained this so often that it simply rolls off my tongue, these days. Our agency investigates crimes, terrorist activities and intelligence threats made to the US Navy and the Marine Corps. That's...what I do."

Mungo's ears seemed to perk at this information and his eyes were fairly glittering.

"Naval! You? Navy?"

Tim looked a little put off by the man's questioning his chosen profession. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm not stationed on board a ship." He muttered under his breath. "...At least, not yet, and hopefully never."

He changed the subject.

"Soooo... Suppose you got my backpack, too?"

"Of course. I found out you were staying at Mairi's and since I was thinking you'd be needing to be looked after, what better place than right here where I have the time to spare that Mairi hasn't."

"Maarie's? Who's Maarie?"

"She's the landlady. A good friend. We're a bit like family, over here. Well, Mairi owns the Mystic Haar guesthouse. But let me get you your rucksack." He stalked out of the room, stooping as he walked through the door.

As he lay waiting for Mungo's return, Tim closed his eyes.

A little later, the tall crofter came back in with the backpack which he handed into Tim's outstretched hands.

"Do at your ease, lad. I'll go and see how the broth's doing. From what I see, you could do with something nutritious." He left again.

Tim glanced at the glass of water Mungo had left on the nightstand.

He dug into his bag and first pulled out his medication: he could use some relief from the pain. After some fumbling to open the pill bottle, he finally succeeded shaking a capsule out into his trembling hand and popped it into his mouth, downing it with a swig of water.

Some more rummaging through his backpack yielded his cell phone and he checked for any missed calls or texts. There was one from Ducky and a couple from Abby, Tony and Ziva, which brought a smile on his face.

Tony's, with the inevitable film quotes, had him laughing outright.

Abby had been to the vet with Jethro. She hastened to reassure him there wasn't anything wrong, but Jethro, having bounded after a rabbit, had ended up whining over a thorn in a paw.

Ziva had enjoyed her first Chinese class. Tim smiled inwardly wishing he could be a fly on the wall whilst she had language class. Ziva had a funny way of mixing up idioms and he could bet his head on it that it wouldn't be any different when she talked Chinese. Not that he understood any Chinese, of course.

He left his phone within easy reach on the night stand and set the backpack on the floor next to his bed.

Tossing the blanket to the side in preparation of swinging his legs over the side, biting back the sudden wave of dizziness, he was arrested by his cell's ring tone. He picked up his phone and, leaning back against the headboard, he had to blink a couple of times as he tried to check the caller ID.

He sighed before picking up.

"Hey, Ducky."

"Timothy. How are you my lad? So tell me how you find the Outer Hebrides! I trust you have taken full advantage of the tranquillity? I'm sure you see the sense in getting a break to fully recover from your injury, don't you, my dear boy?"

"I do, Ducky."

It was no use worrying the good doctor by relating yesterday's adventures. Besides, he hoped his voice sounded upbeat enough not to alarm the ME.

"You are alright, aren't you, Timothy? Nothing more invigorating than a perambulation along the Atlantic shore and the good Scottish fare should put some of the flesh you lost back on you. I do hope you gave the local haggis a try?"

"Yes, Ducky. I had a good hike. Uist is a wonderful place to relax. Haven't tried any haggis, though, but I will, Ducky. I promise."

"Now, what was I calling you about again... Ah, yes! I'm nearly done, here, so I'll be shortly travelling your way."

"There's really no need, Ducky. I'm fine. I really am."

Oops... That came out a little too fast.

There was a silence at the other end of the line; amidst the bustling city of Edinburgh.

"Is there something you need to tell me, Timothy?" There was a quality of worry and a hint of wariness in Ducky's voice which made Tim cringe with guilt.

"No, Ducky...Eh..."

"You do take your medication, don't you?"

"Of course!"

"Timothy?" The doctor's voice became stern. But then, he turned soft again, knowing how Tim would withdraw into himself otherwise. "Is it the headaches? Are they still plaguing you?"

"Yes..." came the equally soft reply.

"Ah. I see."

Even from the far end of the connection, Dr. Mallard could detect there was more to it than Tim would let on. He didn't like it one bit.  
>His decision was taken. He would finish up family business in Edinburgh and take the next flight from Glasgow to Barra, to take care of one of his 'extended' family, for such he considered his friends and co-workers at NCIS.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Tim disconnected and carefully placed his phone on the nightstand again and inwardly groaned. Just perfect. Now, Ducky wouldn't waste a moment to come over so he could cluck and fuss. Who was he to think he had outgrown being looked after by his parents! Ducky could be both mom and dad when he got into the groove.

He lay back down and rubbed his face with both hands.

And then, he jerked up again, causing a stab of pain.

The _corpse_!

What happened to the body? Surely he didn't dream it all? Or,...did he? Nah. He wouldn't be in this abode if it all was but a dream.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see now, was this vision of the waxen corpse. It's empty orbs seemed to be staring straight at him, pleading. Pleading? For what? Why to him?

He started to shake. The tremors spread across his whole body and he broke out in a sweat.

The corpse came closer and closer, extending an arm towards him. It opened its rotting mouth into a silent scream.

Tim made desperate attempts to get away from the advancing...thing. He trashed. He kicked. But the empty eyes were begging. Begging him. To do something. But what? Why him?

He gave up struggling. It seemed pointless and his strength had waned, leaving him weak as a kitten and panting. And still, the question remained what this dead man wanted from him.

"Soup's ready, my fr..."

Mungo was dismayed at Tim's obvious distress and quickly set the bowl of soup on a small table before rushing to Tim's side.

"Timothy...McGee!"

"Ducky?"

Slowly the fog in his head cleared and with a long drawn groan, Tim became aware of his surroundings again and got his breathing somewhat under control again.

"Ducky? What are you saying, young man?"

"Sorry...Mungo... I...I...seem to have... Never mind." He cleared his throat. "Eh...Was there...eh... When you found me...on...on the beach... Was there... Damn...my head..."

So that's what it was about! Mungo drew a chair up to Tim's bed.

Somewhere in between his excitement at finding this poor man and his gruesome companion, and the issuing activity, he hadn't given it any further consideration that this young man would remember.

He observed the small bottle of pills on the nightstand, next to the half empty glass of water. Of course he was dying to talk about all that had happened, but he realized that, right now, his charge's well being came first and foremost.

"I see you've taken some medication?"

Tim was about to nod, but thought better of it.

"I've had an accident..." He hesitated.

"You don't have to tell me all, y'know. Not if you don't want to." Mungo chuckled. "It's not up to some silly old man who's dying with curiosity to force you into telling all!"

"It's a long story, Mungo. Suffice to say I got hit by a car and got my skull cracked. Had the bad luck I landed head first. At least, that's what they told me. I have no memory at all of that day or the accident."

"Hence the headaches..." Mungo nodded.

"Hence the headaches, yeah."

"How long ago?"

"Couple of months, now. Four. I'm suffering from the after effects of a traumatic brain injury and that includes headaches and recurring dizziness which can get at me any time." He left out the other effects still plaguing him like the difficulty he experienced concentrating, or the bouts of depression. He had no wish talking about this to anyone. Nor about the anti-seizure meds he still had to take, albeit as a precaution.

"Hm." Mungo seemed satisfied for now. "Okay. I won't tire you by going in too much detail. You obviously need your rest, my young friend."

"Please, just tell me what happened to that...b..body. It was there, wasn't it? It was real."

Mungo couldn't ignore the confusion he saw in Tim's eyes and he felt sorry for him.

"You weren't alone on the beach, Timothy." He said quietly.

"So I didn't imagine it."

"No, you didn't."

"Then, tell me what happened to the body." Tim tried to sit up against the headboard.

"How's the head now?" Mungo enquired.

"Ache's abating. The meds are kicking in."

"Fine, then." Mungo leaned forward and laced his fingers, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"After I had pulled you into my cart, I dragged the body away from the waterline. My first concern was getting you here where I could take care of you. Then I called Doc. My next call was to the police station. While Doc was checking you, Hamish – that's our local police officer – arrived and I drove with him back to the beach where I found you. He took pictures with that expensive looking camera of his. We wrapped the corpse into a body bag and loaded it into his car. Hamish dropped me off here and continued with the body to Lochmaddy where it was taken to the mortuary."

"Is there anybody who has an idea of the man's identity? Has there been a local missing? A fisherman? Anyone? A..."

"Hold your horses, young man! Too many questions." Mungo laughed that booming laugh of his.

"Sorry," he apologized when he saw Tim cringe and he continued in a more subdued voice.

"No local folk missing as far as I know. We're not that many left on this island. Of course I don't know everybody. Probably a fisherman. The waters are rich, hereabouts."

After a moment of thought, Tim tried to get out of bed, but Mungo was quick to bring a restraining hand down on Tim's shoulder, effectively keeping him down on his back.

"Ho-ho-hoooo, young man! Where do you think you're going?"

"I must see the body!"

"In this state you're in? No, you don't."

Tim raised a hand to brush Mungo's away, but the taller man kept him firmly down, shaking his head.

"Eh-eh-eh-ehhh! You'll be going nowhere until I let you. That poor man won't run away. He's going to stay in his new cool home nice and cosy until they know more about him."

"I can help."

"As I'm sure you can." Mungo soothed Tim, and then mentally added to himself: "in more ways than one, I would imagine."

"Please..."

When Tim saw the other man wouldn't budge, he became angry.

"Why are you keeping me a hostage!" He lashed out, but immediately bit his tongue.

Silence.

"I...I'm sorry... That was out of line. I'm truly sorry..." Tim muttered, rubbing his forehead.

This whole situation was wearing him out.  
>Mungo saw this.<p>

"There is nothing you have to feel sorry for, Timothy. You're not well. You're tired and you are in need of some rest. So, please, do that. Let your body heal. You've been through an accident months ago and you've been into a bad situation only yesterday." Mungo got up and made for the door. "Sleep and we'll see what we can arrange tomorrow. What 'd you think?"

When he got no answer, he turned around.

Tim was out like a light.

- -.-. -. . .

The next day, Tim felt considerably better and could make it out of bed, up and about and even venture outside without getting dizzy and sick with a whacking headache.

Mungo had insisted, by taking advantage of his towering height, that Tim would stay under his care. There wasn't much Tim could do but accept this 'invitation'.

He had to agree, though, that he found the place quite homey. He was used to a more modern and techno kind of place, than this...dwelling, but the elder man kept it quite clean and organized which had Tim thinking about the man's job before retirement. He couldn't believe Mungo MacAskill had always been a crofter. No way.

Right now, after the sun had passed its zenith, Tim had walked down the winding path to the beach to lie down in the sand doing nothing more strenuous than watching the white clouds drift in the clear blue sky. After a while of this...activity...he let his eyes drop closed.

A shadow falling over him, woke him up from his doze. Doze? Wow! He quickly checked his watch and found he'd slept a solid two hours!

"Care to come to the pub with me? Aine will be playing the clàrsach."

Tim stared at him, his left hand raised so that he blocked the late afternoon sun's rays.

"The harp, Timothy. She plays the harp." He clarified.

"Oh. Eh... Sure."

Mungo extended a hand and helped Tim up, holding him by the elbow as he wobbled slightly from having lain too long in the same position on the beach.

Now harp music was not exactly Tim's thing; so he wasn't really looking forward to a recital at a local pub, but he'd humor the man. He couldn't expect the jazz he favored or the electronica he loved even more.

Half an hour later, the two men found themselves sitting at a small table, Mungo sipping at a pint of a Hebridean ale, a Berserker, and half a pint for Tim. MacAskill had assured Tim about the healing effects of a good dark beer. "Women are made to drink it to stimulate the milk production." He'd told Tim with a wink. To which Tim had dryly replied he was hardly expected to breastfeed in this life.

McGee had to admit, though, he rather enjoyed the afternoon at the pub. This was not in the least to be accredited to the dark haired beauty with the porcelain skin who played the harp to perfection and even managed to play some folk tunes in a jazzy way which was more to Tim's taste.

The girl, when introduced, was from Man. It was with no little pride she bore the name of Mhannain. Aine preferred to be called by this Gaelic equivalent of the clan Buchanan, Mhannain, because the unanglicised form was related to the Celtic hero Manannan mac Lir, after whom the island in the Irish Sea was named. She even explained to Tim how, as she'd spent most of her youth on the island, she actually held a Manx passport!

Tim's eyes held that distant, dreamy look again. A sure sign he had an instant liking to this girl. And it was reciprocated, as she was doing her best not to get lost in this man's pools of green. A losing battle.

"Do you play an instrument, Mr McGee?"

"By the way, it's Tim. Just call me Tim. And, no, I don't play an instrument. At least, not any more. I used to play some guitar. Basically, I quit after it became obvious I had a too mathematical relationship with the instrument. Let me put it this way: I got a little too obsessed with technique rather than 'feeling', if you know what I mean." He grinned and shrugged apologetically.

"I do. A friend of mine plays Chopin...but it doesn't sound like Chopin. He's a mathematician, still he loves music...except...he doesn't really know how to translate his love into the music he produces. Anyroad, not the way Chopin does. Or any composer, for that matter."

"Give me the songs of Mother nature. Makes me the happiest man on this planet. The murmur of the sea. The little burns and cascades. The wind through the rushes and singing through the eaves on dark winter days. The birds and their songs heralding spring. More birds chirping and the bees on a glorious summer day. The swan's songs..."

"You left out the midges, Mungo." Aine laughed, wagging a finger at him.

"Swans?" Tim asked.

"Oh, but you don't know our Mungo, yet. Claims he hears the children of Lir."

When she noticed Tim didn't quite follow, she went on. "It's a myth, Tim. Once upon a time, long long ago, there was this powerful man, Lir. He had four children: Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiachra and Conn."

"I take it you've never heard of them, Timothy?" Mungo put in between two gulps of his ale. "Tell him, Aine. Or better yet: sing it to him."

"Let's see... I'll sing you the Cruachan version which is all in English."

She walked over to where she'd left her harp and sat down, leaning the instrument into her arms and started to play and sing.

_In the time of myth and magic,_  
><em>lived a man of timeless power,<em>  
><em>Lir was his name,<em>  
><em>...<em>

Tim sat back in his chair and closed his eyes to listen as she sang of how Lir's first wife died and King Dearg, who had heard of Lir's sadness invited Lir to his palace where he'd meet Dearg's beautiful daughter, Eve.  
>Lir's love for Eve was as strong as his love for his late wife and from this marriage came four children. But then, to his anguish, Eve died giving birth to Fiachra and Conn.<br>Once more Lir was stricken by such a terrible loss. Wanting to help again, Dearg let Eve's sister, Aoife, be his his friend's next bride.  
>Aoife, though, had a jealous streak and, one day, she took Lir's children to a lake where she changed them into swans.<br>The spell had them spend 300 years on Derravaragh where the children would tell their story to the people who lived there, near the lake.  
>The next 300 years were spent in misery on the Sea of Moyle. They encountered many dangerous situations and missed their father dearly. Fionnula would literally take her brothers under her wings to protect them.<br>When they could leave this terrible place, the flew to Inish Gluaire where they would live another 300 years as swans.  
>Finally, after living 900 years as swans, the day arrived when they were transformed back to their human forms.<p>

_..._  
><em>The spell was ending,<em>  
><em>they felt themselves transform.<em>  
><em>They were now ancient,<em>  
><em>their youth was gone forever,<em>  
><em>And as they died,<em>  
><em>they held hands and went together.<em>

The last chords still rang in the empty room and Tim slowly opened his eyes, feeling rather sad and yet, at the same time, happy.

"At least, they died free and in their true forms." Mungo murmured, to which Tim nodded in agreement, raising his glass in a toast.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'll be away to Dublin for a week, so I may not be able to update until after I'm back home; depending ****on having access to internet or not. I, for one, hope I do. ;D  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

Aine knocked and prised open the rickety door to poke her head inside. There, she found the old man sitting vigil at Tim's bedside and speaking in that ancient tongue of the Gaels which was still spoken on these remote and timeless islands.

"Caidil gu ciùin." Old MacAskill whispered as he laid his hand on the sleeper's head.

Mungo MacAskill looked up with a smile. "Aine! Cò tha seo?"

"Hallo, a Mhungo," she whispered so as not to disturb Tim. "I've brought you a late visitor."

She let the visitor in and retreated to the living room. The man moved straight to the bed and let his eyes check in the sleeping man. Only when he was satisfied Tim was in a deep slumber, did he extend his hand to Mungo MacAskill.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Sir, but you can put that down to my concern for our young man, here. Allow me to first introduce myself: I am Dr. Donald Mallard and a dear friend of Timothy's."

Mungo rose from his seat and grabbed Ducky's hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Mungo MacAskill. You're welcome." He gestured towards the other room where Aine was waiting. "I suggest we leave young Timothy to rest while we have our chat in the other room. Tea, coffee...or maybe you would prefer a beer or a wee dram."

When everyone was seated with a cup of herbal tea, Ducky didn't want to dally any longer.

"How is he?"

The tall man shrugged. "He's fine."

"...Now... Given everything." Aine added with a pointed look at Mungo that Ducky didn't miss.

There was something going on, here.

Aine took a sip of her tea and sat her cup down on the table.

Ducky didn't have to wait long before someone started talking.

"Mungo took Tim down to the morgue at Lochmaddy."

"He begged to go, Aine!"

"He wasn't ready for this!" She hotly retorted.

"He had to...for his own peace of mind. He had to see the body."

"Body? What body?" Ducky's interest was piqued at this information.

Mungo turned towards the ME. "I found the young man lying on the beach in company of one ugly looking corpse.

"Oh dear." Ducky muttered. Granted the young NCIS agent had finally become accustomed to corpses in all states of decomposition, but still... Ducky knew that a body washed ashore...had to be rather gruesome as it had in all probability lain in the water for quite a long time already.

Then, he remembered their last phone call and how Timothy had sounded...off. Ducky had to restrain himself from rushing into that bedroom and check on the young man. For all he knew, Timothy might have been subjected to more injuries or a mental trauma! God knew how long he'd lain there on that beach next to a dead body? And heaven only knew how he would react when he awoke next to a decomposed body.

He now became urgent and businesslike.

"How was he when you found him?"

"Well, looking rather gruesome. Yeah. A bit like them wax figures in Madam Toosaus. The color of dough. The eyes..."

Ducky's impatience grew.

"Timothy. How was Timothy when you found him?"

"Oh! Completely knocked out. I found him...almost naked...very cold and unconscious. Didn't look too good. I took him to my little croft. The lad needed a warm place to recover. And some food. He looked scrawny to me." He chuckled. "There's nothing like my good old chicken broth for a remedy. But of course I had Doc over to check on him."

"And how about now? What happened at the morgue? Why did you take him there in his state? Surely the lad wasn't yet up to venture out on a field trip to the morgue!"

Aine and Mungo's eyes briefly met, as if considering whether they should tell this man about what happened in Lochmaddy.

Mungo lowered his voice and looked around the room as if fearing a conspiracy, taking good care there were no eavesdroppers.

"He talks to the dead."

"You're serious." Ducky replied. In all his years he'd know Agent McGee, he'd never caught the young man talking to Ducky's 'patients'. On the contrary: he usually couldn't be fast enough to leave the dead in Ducky's care and be gone. This certainly was not what the ME had anticipated.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! D'you really see me make all this up or what?"

"No...no of course not, begging your pardon. But, I am a tad surprised, truth to tell. So you actually heard him talk to the...deceased?

Mungo nodded vigorously. "Oh, aye! I didn't quite catch what he said an' a' that. When we left, the forensic doc did tell me that Timothy had been speakin' wi' the...poor fella...about him goin' to make sure he would see the man go home."

"Home?" Ducky asked confused. 'Good heavens, what was all this about? A game? A riddle? What exactly, and, more importantly, what has all this to do with Timothy? The man seems to be talking about someone else entirely! Oh-aye, when Timothy wakes up, a nice chat will be in order.' Ducky thought.

"Why, he's the Gatekeeper!" Mungo explained patiently.

"Of...?" Of course Ducky had an inkling what Mungo was referring to.

"A psycho pomp..." Aine started.

"A psycho-what?" Mungo blurted out, indignation spreading across his weather worn features. "He's no psycho, he ain't!"

Aine sighed and looked Ducky steadily in the eye. "A creature that guides the departed to the Otherworld, an Saoghal Eile, okay? That's a psycho pomp. The "guide of souls". After all, that's the way you yourself see him, Mungo. Right? Like Hermes, Mercury...or Anubis...? Every religion has them."

"I know what a psycho pomp is, but, oh my!" Ducky exclaimed with a snort. "You don't really believe this...superstitious...twaddle..."

Before Mungo could provide a retort, Aine indicated the old man with her head. "Mungo, here, rather strongly believes that Timothy is Manannàn MacLir... The god of the sea and the tides, who also controls the weather. He's the master of magical arts, and a friend of all the dreamers. And he guides the departed to the Land Beneath the Sea before they make it to the Afterlife. "

Ducky's eyebrows went up a notch at this...extraordinary news and he was hard put not to burst out laughing. This was too ridiculous for words. Instead, he chose to keep his face straight, something he had learned during his tenure as a medical examiner. And this was one occasion heavy laden with seriousness that didn't allow for much levity. This was Timothy they were talking about.

"And what, pray, has given rise to such an amazing belief? For what reason or reasons do you associate Timothy with...this sea god?"

"The ocean and Manannàn's Horses have given him back to us." Mungo said with such conviction that brooked no contradiction.

"Why would you think that?" Ducky wanted to know despite himself.

"Because Enbarr told me. He let me know. He was the first sign." Mungo replied, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice now that he had kindled the other man's interest.

"And...Enbarr...is...? Who? A local? One of your friends?"

Aine replied for Mungo with a roll of her eyes. "A horse, Dr. Mallard. Enbarr is a mythological horse."

"Manannàn's very own horse!" Mungo nodded. "And the seals! Don't forget the seals. They accompanied him ashore and stayed with him until I got there. Guarding him until I could take care of him."

"A privilege, surely..." Ducky muttered, still unconvinced and questioning the old man's mental state more than ever. Definitely batty.

Mungo continued as if he hadn't heard.

"Manannàn was weary. So weary he fell like dead on the beach. Even deities need a break, sometimes." Now that he could freely voice his knowledge, there was no stopping him.

"Oh, and then..." There he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, whispering confidentially. "He called up...a storm!"

*flashback*

Green eyes opened and searched the old man's.

"Mannn..." Tim tried, weakly waving his arm before it fell back on the boards.

Mungo MacAskill's eyes went wide at that and he looked this way and that, not knowing what to do.

Then, it hit him. This couldn't be. A naked man with a corpse on a beach, the ragwort flowers, the horse with the flowing manes, the squall which came out of the blue... These just couldn't be coincidences.

"Manannàn..."

*end flashback*

"His eyes..." Mungo mused, his own taking a distant look. "...were of the greenest I've ever seen - they have the ocean in them." Suddenly, he became focused again. "When I was taking him back to my wee croft, there was this storm, as if out of thin air. At that exact moment, I heard him...making this eerie, moaning sound, so I turned to him. That's when he told me his name and...then, just as suddenly, the storm went! Gone! As if it never was there."

"His name is Tim..." Ducky began.

"No! No no nooo. Wrong. I mean...he really did say: "Mann'n"...you know? Only...he couldn't finish because he passed out again."

Ducky picked up his mug and sipped thoughtfully of his tea. He didn't often drink herbal teas, but this one was very tasty.

To him, there was no doubt about it: Mungo had a rather fertile imagination. Compare the very private and soft-spoken, brilliant, down to earth agent to a pagan deity? More importantly, one that ferried the deceased over to the Otherworld? Wasn't that just a trifle hyperbolic?

There was a sound from the other room and then the door opened wide, revealing a tousled and sleepy looking Timothy McGee in pyjamas, running a hand through his hair and yawning mightily.

He padded further into the room, squinted a little at his friend of the last seven odd years. Then his eyes widened and his lips formed a perfect "o" when understanding came. The phone call. Aw crap...

"Hey, Ducky." Tim greeted, a blush spreading over his features.

The doctor gave him a professional once-over and Tim, unsurprisingly, cringed under Ducky's steady gaze, which, he was sure, would miss nothing.

Of course he felt still far from stellar and of course he looked anything but in excellent shape. His unfortunate dip in the Atlantic hadn't exactly helped his recurring headaches and other, if now sporadic, aches. He also knew his somewhat emaciated form was still one of his physician's – Ducky's - worries.

He hoped to leave a better impression by puffing up his chest and standing a little taller, but, alas, Ducky was not to be fooled and Tim visibly deflated as he recognized the abject concern in the doctor's eyes. Chagrin, too, for Ducky had had faith in Tim that he would trust Ducky instead of acting as if he was good.

Aine, having observed the wordless conversation between the two friends, glanced at her cup, for a moment, before making a decision.

Setting her tea down, she slowly got up and, taking Tim by the arm, led him back to the bedroom.

Ducky, witnessing this, was baffled. Such docile behavior was so altogether out of character for Tim. The young man, while giving the girl a sideways glance, just let himself be guided back to his bed. He obediently crawled into the bed, sliding his legs under the blankets.

Aine was in the act of straightening the covers over him when Ducky quietly, so as not to intrude on them, entered the room. Of course Tim, having still only eyes for Aine, missed the genuinely troubled look of the ME.

She knelt next to the bed and smoothed his hair back. Her ministrations seemed to work and Tim relaxed, letting his eyes fall shut.

"Milis daor." She sighed, caressing his face and smoothing his hair, before she rose to her feet to light a candle on the bedside table. Then, she drew a chair near and sang a Manx song in that sweet voice of hers.

Mungo, leaning against the door frame, leaned into Ducky and whispered: "Aine, is Manannan's second wife."

Ducky was speechless.

Mungo shrugged. "Uill, chi sinn... We'll see."

* * *

><p><span>Some translations<span>:

Caidil gu ciùin: sleep peacefully  
>Cò tha seo?: Who is this?<br>milis daor: darling (lit. sweet dear)

My apologies in advance for any errors in the Scottish Gaelic parts... I will probably insert more Gàidhlig to add some flavor to this story.

- -.-. -. . .


	6. Chapter 6

**Still in Dublin, but at least with access to the internet (during a pub meal, why not?). Thanks, you guys, for the very nice ****feedback. It certainly works as a boost to write.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

The next morning, Ducky woke up to the ringing of the phone on his bedside table.

"Dr. Mallard."

"_Good morning, Dr. Mallard? It's...Aine_."

"Good morning, my dear. What's wrong? You do sound a little distraught." He waited a few seconds before continuing, unease finding its way into his voice. "It's Timothy, isn't it? Tell me."

Ducky moved to sit on the side, his feet searching for his slippers. He found it impossible to shake this feeling of dread. Why else would she call him at this early hour? And Timothy being...who he is...and now...

"_Is Timothy with you?_"

"No, dear. Why should he be?"

"_He's sneaked out, Dr. Mallard. Mungo just called me, hoping Tim might be with you. And, honestly, I was hoping the same._" After a moment of silence on Ducky's part, she went on. "_He isn't, is he?_"

"No, I'm afraid not." He sighed. Oh Timothy. "Look, I suggest we just wait and see. For all we know, he may have gone out for a walk...to clear his head. It wouldn't be the first time, you know? I'll contact you in the event he turns up."

"_Lovely. When we hear anything, we'll get in touch with you, too. Oh, I hope nothing awful happened to him._" She sounded genuinely worried.

Ducky wasn't less concerned, though. As soon as he'd put the horn down, he took a couple of deep breaths before he got up and went about his morning rituals.

It was still too early to make his way down for breakfast and, until then, he made himself comfortable in the chair next to the window to read some.

He was just about to leave the breakfast room, when his cell rang. Fervently hoping it was his young friend, he eagerly checked the call and found the id showed it was indeed Tim.

"Timothy! Where are you?"

"_Errr... Good morning, Ducky. I...I didn't wake you, did I?_"

"Of course not. You know I keep early hours. Why don't you start by telling me where you are at this moment?"

"_I...uh... I'm in Lochmaddy. Ducky..._"

"Now look here, young man. You've seen the body yesterday. Now, I'd like you to..."

"_Ducky. Just listen to me. You..._"

"No, young man: you just listen to me! I want you to truthfully tell me how you feel at the moment."

"_I'm fine, I really am. But, please,..._"

"No headaches? Dizziness? I can't believe you're as fine as you say. Not after I saw you last night."

Tim let out an aggravated sigh at the Lochmaddy end.

"_Ducky. Please. Eh...hold on for a sec._" A conversation could be heard in the background. Then, Tim's voice came over stronger. "_Yes, I get it. I'm okay. Thanks._" Things being settled in Lochmaddy, Tim was back on the phone again. "_Hey. I'm back._" A short sigh. "_Ducky, can you make it here? Like now? I need you. I'm sorry to drag you over here, but..._"

"Why of course! I was on my way anyroad!" In fact he was, since he'd been walking back to his room for his wallet and his coat.

"_It's just your expertise I need for that body. In your capacity as a medical examiner._"

"Timothy..."

"_Ducky. Please. I...I..._" Another exasperated sigh...and mumbling something incomprehensible on the other end of the phone. "_This...the...body. It...it doesn't leave me alone. I can't find any peace until I know who he is and how he died._" By now, his breath was coming fast and loud through his cell. "_Please._" The last word was so soft Ducky had barely caught it.

"I'm on my way, Timothy. Just...take a rest until I get there. Can you do that?"

"_Yeah. I...I'll do that. See you then. And...ah...thanks._"

He disconnected.

Ducky stared at his phone, pondering about how he should interpret Tim's behavior. Was there a reason to be concerned? After last night's conversation with Mungo MacAskill and Aine, he should think there was. And even more so now with Tim having thought it absolutely necessary to go back to that infernal corpse in Lochmaddy!

But first things first: a call to Aine. Maybe she could drive him over to Lochmaddy.

- -.-. -. . .

They found Tim snoozing in the waiting room, an empty glass beside him on the small table. His head was tilted back and resting against the wall. His lips slightly parted. His long legs were stretched forward and crossed at the ankles. His abdomen rising and falling with every breath he took. His face looked quite relaxed, even though sleeping in an upright position was anything but comfortable.

A petite woman in scrubs walked into the room, scribbling something on the clip-board she carried. She looked up, hardly showing any surprise at finding two more people in the morgue this early in the morning.

She tucked the board under her arm as she approached them to greet them.

"Good morning, Miss Mhannain. So nice to see you here again, too." The local pathologist couldn't help slipping into her voice a little note of sarcasm. Then, she turned to Ducky. "You must be Dr. Mallard? Agent McGee's told me you'd honour us with your visit."

"Indeed I am, Doctor Oliphant." Ducky nodded towards the dozing form of Tim. "So it seems like you caught at least one early bird, this morning?"

"He's explained to me why his interest in the body – about how his line of work is to be blamed for his insatiable hunger for answers."

"Ah, yes. That explains a lot. Our Timothy is a professional to his fingertips when something, which even remotely points at a possible crime, crosses his path...even when he should be making the most of a holiday... Which he obviously isn't."

She smiled wryly and motioned to them to follow her into her office and thus out of earshot of Tim, should he wake up.

"I must admit to being somewhat surprised to see him here again. And at this odd hour." She chuckled, but swiftly became serious again. "He looked rather worn out and a little confused, when I found him waiting for me, here. About the first thing he asked...if I please had an Ibuprofen or something for his killer headache."

Ducky nodded and quickly explained. "He suffered a dreadful accident, a couple of months ago. Agent McGee sustained a severe head trauma which required surgical treatment. There were complications. It was touch and go, for a while. Truth be told, he's lucky to have recovered so well, considering. He's now down to medication only for recurring headaches..."

He said no more. In fact, there was no need, for Dr. Oliphant nodded, knowing full well what the implications were for a severe head injury.

"However," Ducky continued, "I doubt he came all the way over only for medical treatment by such a charming lady as yourself...for a headache? What else happened? The body, I suspect?"

"Yes. He was adamant to see the body again. I tried to find out why he was so persistent, since he'd already seen the deceased yesterday. Talking about yesterday... When I caught him...talking to the body, I asked him why he was doing this. He told me...begging your pardon, but... Anyway, he informed me you..."

"He explained how I converse with my 'patients'? My dear. I realize this may strike as eccentric, but… Let me put it this way. As a medical examiner, I'm required to find evidence of the demise of the poor souls who await my expertise in the autopsy room. In a fashion, the dead give their own version of the way they went. I, for myself, find talking to them helps me to deduce what happened. I also like to observe at least some modicum of the respect they would get if still alive. Of course they can't verbally reply when I ask questions."

"… And a good thing, too." Dr. Oliphant murmured, unable to shake the idea that Americans are one crazy lot.

Noticing her older colleague was done explaining, she went on with in what state she'd found McGee, but not before she'd walked over to the door for a peek at the still sleeping form of the NCIS agent.

"Anyroad. He seemed a little peaked to me, so I made him drink a glass of fruit juice to down the pill. It would certainly help to crick up his sugar level. Now then… Back to the body in my autopsy… Would you care to explain his…interest in it?"

After she'd indicated they could take a seat, she sat down at her desk and crossed her arms as she regarded her visitors.

Aine chose to let her gaze travel around the office, leaving the talking to Ducky. Despite her outward lack of interest, she was all ears, though.

"I'd rather discuss this issue with Agent McGee, too." Ducky calmly stated. "I'm sure he has his reasons for being here."

"So, would you suggest we simply wait here until he wakes up?" Dr. Oliphant raised an eyebrow.

"We could help him there. After all, slouched in a hard chair is not the most comfortable place to catch up on lost sleep?"

That decided, they all rose to their feet and walked back into the corridor.

- -.-. -. . .

Now the three between them, Dr. Oliphant, Ducky and Tim, found themselves staring at the corpse.

"The adipocere indicates the body has been immersed in the colder regions of the water layers for a considerable time. There's some tissue loss, too." Ducky pointed at the damaged parts on the body. "I strongly suspect marine animals for causing this. I remember a case of a foot in a boot..."

"How long, Ducky?" Tim wanted to know, unceremoniously cutting off Ducky. "And what do you mean by...adipocere? I can't remember having come across this...eh...well..." He frowned.

"Adipocere, also known as grave-wax, explains the waxy appearance of the body. It's a chemical process which turns the fatter layers beneath the skin into a soapy substance. It takes several weeks, sometimes months, for a body to obtain that aspect."

"How can a body stay under water only to resurface after such a lengthy period? I've never seen anything like it before, Ducky."

Tim shivered at the recollection of his struggle in the ocean when coming in contact with the bloated soapy, waxy...thing.

"Cold water will tend to delay the re flotation process, Timothy. Adding to that, there's the adipocerous state of the body. There's no saying how long this poor fellow has been in the water. Estimating the postmortem interval is rather limited, you know?"

"This..." Tim swallowed hard. "...guy...reminds me of that case of that body in the hydrofluoric acid drum, when I was a Case Agent in Norfolk..." His first case with Team Gibbs... And Abby. "_Gotta call Abby. She'll never forgive me if I don't._"

"The remains certainly share a familiar look, coming to that. Actually saponification is a chemical alteration of body fat. Quite similar to what happpened to our Norfolk man. By the way! There's this anecdote about one august Augustus Granville who had, somewhat unwittingly albeit, made candles from a mummy's grave-wax. He lit those when giving a lecture on that very mummy's dissection… Ah...that's not what you want to hear, do you Timothy?"

When Ducky was on a roll, there was virtually no stopping him unless something drastic could put a stopper on his maundering.

Unless...?

A familiar sound made him look up in time to see Dr. Oliphant quickly push a tray in Tim's hands in which he emptied the meager contents of his stomach.

Ducky sighed. He should've realized the young man was no lover of his more juicy – in this case, 'soapy' – tales of the dead at the best of times. Now, in his weakened state, the man had no defense left at all.

When he was done and a little spent, Tim wiped his mouth and turned a pale sweaty face towards the body and then looked defiantly into Ducky's eyes.

"_So,_" Ducky thought with some pride, "_if that's how Timothy's going to play it by? It shows how Jethro has trained him well: 'suck it up' and act like a professional... Good lad!_"

"According to Dr. Oliphant," Tim gave a polite nod towards the local pathologist, "the cause of death was by blunt force trauma. I was wondering, Ducky – and, please, Dr. Oliphant, this is by no means meant as any slight to your pathological skills... It's just..." He shrugged helplessly.

She smiled understandingly and, facing Ducky, finished what Tim was saying. "Agent McGee was wondering if you could shed more light on how this victim met his death. More precisely whether it was an accidental death or criminal. Since you, Dr. Mallard, have more experience in the field?"

"What are your findings, Dr. Oliphant?"

"It's all in the file. However, I can offer you a small recap. So far, I have found no evidence of a crime. My conclusions are therefore 'accidental death'. Everything points that the victim was a fisherman. He had either struck or was hit by a blunt object, fell overboard and drowned."

Ducky watched Tim as he kept his gaze fixed on the corpse; as if in a trance.

"It is indeed hard to tell for certain at this stage and I'd have to conduct a more thorough examination. However, I'm out of my jurisdiction, here. Look, at a cursory glance, besides the obvious injury which ultimately lead to his death, there is no obvious sign of any other external trauma and, thus, little to determine conclusively whether there was murder or manslaughter involved or not."

A silence ensued.

"Really, Timothy. Not all untimely deaths are murder! And since..."

"And how about the identity? Are there any identifiable DNA markers left for identification?" Tim broke in.

"Hardly any, Timothy. Remember my explaining the adipocere?"

Ducky noticed Tim's confusion. As a medical doctor, he was rather familiar with the consequences and thus the long and not always smooth recovery phase of a head injury.

The effects Tim was experiencing after his…accident, were still painfully present and this slowness in fully comprehending and building upon the knowledge Ducky had just shared, was yet another indication all was still not well with Tim. This little incident had Ducky raise an eyebrow. He was again reminded to keep a worried, yet professional eye on Tim.

Dr. Oliphant hadn't failed to notice the way her colleague had reacted to Tim's question. It hadn't particularly disturbed her, since few investigating agents would've drawn the logical conclusion. In her opinion, McGee wasn't any different. And yet… The older medical examiner looked worried.

The only one who was still unaware of the effect his question had on Ducky, was the subject of the medical scrutiny himself.

Ducky gave a small sigh.

"I fear, Timothy, that this chemical reaction makes forensic DNA identification nigh to impossible since the DNA has altered, too. With some luck, there may still be a remote chance that traces of the DNA are still preserved in the deeper layers of tissue.

Tim remained thoughtful for a moment.

"Surely this man is missed. There must be records. Somewhere. Police station. Even in this...this...outback...place...Computer..." He turned on his heels and, in his haste, lost his balance. He quickly recovered, though, by holding his hand to the door frame on his way out.

"_Good grief!_" Ducky thought, scurrying to catch up with his young friend. "_I really wonder what's going on in that head of his._"

- -.-. -. . .


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Thank you, Hamish, for granting me access to your software. COMPACT is truly a neat program."

Tim was smiling broadly as he was shaking hands with the local constable.

"And you should know, Tim. Wow! You must be the record holder in getting your information from this program! I'm yet to meet the person who can equal your speed! I'm glad you found what you were looking for, though."

"Yeah. I'm much helped."

"Soooo... What will you do with the information? Contact the poor fellow's family? We could do this, you know? After all, it's our task."

"Oh, of course you can notify the family. What's happening to the body? Short term?"

"We'll ask the family, first. The usual procedure is to repatriate a body."

"Hmmm."

Hamish shuffled his feet. He couldn't put a finger on it, but he sensed something more was going on with Agent McGee. He wasn't forthcoming in his secrets. Hamish knew Tim was not telling all.

"Thank you, too, Tim, for your invaluable help in closing a case."

He was pensive for a moment before speaking up.

"Tell me one thing, though. If I hadn't logged into this program...would you really have found your way into it nevertheless? Hacking the system?"

"What makes you think that?" Tim asked, snapping his head up warily, which Hamish noticed.

"The way you...played with this... You seem to handle keyboards pretty well. What's wrong?"

Tim visibly relaxed. Hamish chose to ignore this. Who was he, after all, to pry into another man's affairs? Another man who'd helped tracking down the identity of a missing person.

"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Let's say it would've taken me a lot more time to hack into the system."

When he noticed the shocked expression on the constable's face, he hastened to explain.

"I'm not only a Federal Agent. I also hold a Masters in Forensic Computer Science. It's...part of my job to find my way through cyber space in order to solve a crime. Like extracting data from encrypted files...hidden files from computers in whatever state I get them. You'd be amazed by what I sometimes get in my hands." He chuckled breezily. "I get so badly fried computers it's almost like tweaking data from an aircraft's black box! Apparently they expect miracles from me. I'm the..." Here he crooked his index fingers to quote the idea. "...computer wiz."

Now that, Hamish understood.

"Ah. I get it. Now you tell me what your plans are with the poor bloke." Hamish pressed.

"Now that I know his name..." He blushed. "I can say my good-byes. I know this may sound weird, but I needed to find out, Hamish."

They both stood there, silent and again a little awkward as if not quite knowing what else there was to say. It was Tim who finally snapped out of it and addressed the young constable, offering a handshake.

"Anyway, Hamish, it was nice to see your line of police work, here, on this side of the Atlantic."

Hamish shook the hand and gave a rueful smile.

"Well, it hardy compares with what you blokes do in Washington. A Federal Agency no less... Eh. By the way: you won't be leaving any time soon? "

"No. I don't think so." Tim shrugged resignedly. "I'd only just got on the island when...you know... I want to at least see something more of Uist and the rest of the Hebrides, and of course its people, before I head back to DC."

If Ducky had possessed psychic powers, Tim would have had no trouble believing this for Ducky's timely – or untimely - arrival. So, all Tim could do, was roll his eyes in anticipation to what was coming.

"And let us not forget why you are here in the first place, Timothy. Despite my admonitions to take it easy, you've managed to put yourself into trouble yet again, young man."

Then, somewhat calmer, he bid the astonished, yet grinning police officer, good-bye and directed his steps towards The Mystic Haar B&B.

Tim had seldom stood a chance against a stern Ducky, and now it was no different. With an apologetic smile, he left Hamish and strolled after Ducky. There was no need to hurry. Last time he remembered, he was still on holiday.

- -.-. -. . .

Tim woke up and looked around him in confusion. And then he remembered.

As soon as they'd entered the B&B – he checked his watch and blinked – two hours ago, Ducky had insisted he lay down to take a nap. The doctor had literally taken him by his arm and led him upstairs to his own room.

That was why he found himself still fully clothed, with the exception of his shoes which he'd, obviously, slipped off before making himself comfortable on the bed. A quilt had been draped over his previously sleeping form. He had been a little chilly. But that was probably because he'd been feeling rather wiped out. Now, he felt quite rested.

Tim rubbed his face and then proceeded to crack his joints. The little resulting pops felt incredibly good to him.

He wasn't done with this ritual.

He got up, slowly, making sure he wasn't having a dizzy spell which seemed to be the norm since his accident, and padded to the bathroom.

Having made himself a little more presentable again, he went downstairs and walked into the lounge, thinking this the most likely place to find Ducky. He was not disappointed as he found the older man engrossed in a book.

"Hey, Ducky," he offered sheepishly.

The doctor barely moved his head, only raising his eyes quizzically to look at Tim above the rim of his reading glasses.

"Ah there you are, young man. I dare say you look somewhat rested. How are you feeling yourself, by the bye?"

"Better, Ducky. Fine. Sooo…" Tim looked around the room as if seeking the answer there for his question. "What are our plans for the rest of the day?"

Ducky pushed himself out of the comfortable armchair and walked over to the bookshelf where he put the book back in its rightful spot, taking his time to bring across his next suggestion to a young man who reels whenever medical advice was offered.

"I propose to go for luncheon, Timothy. I know I'm hungry and quite ready to eat a horse. I don't know about you, but I honestly and strongly suggest you do likewise."

"Eat a horse? No thanks, Ducky." Tim smiled.

Ducky, however, did not.

Instead he raised an eyebrow and seemed to look right through Tim, leaving the latter uncomfortable, the smile evaporating from his face.

Despite keeping a straight face, deep inside, Ducky was actually smiling, rejoicing, at seeing some of the old Tim making its way back.

Of course, the stuttering nervous young agent was back, too. And it was funny to see Tim puff his cheeks again, his big green orbs roving all over the place before deciding how best to offer a Ducky a better answer instead of going for another joke.

"Uh…errr…" Tim looked down at his feet. Then his gaze went up again, meeting Ducky's unwavering stare. The smile was back on Tim's face. "I won't say 'no' to a nice meal, Ducky. I have to admit I have quite an appetite. Not exactly so ravenous that I could eat a horse…"

"Come along, then, and let's see what the pub has to offer. Whilst we wait for our meal, you can tell me all about the mysterious man currently residing in Lochmaddy's morgue."

- -.-. -. . .

"…and so we found out the victim was a French fisherman who'd been swept overboard a 150ft trawler in heavy seas back in…March." Tim concluded his report.

He took another bite of the delicious lamb chops.

"So the Stornoway Coastguard had been called out during that gale for a search and rescue for this man, but the chopper had to return to the base empty handed. They've had their share of rescue missions that month. They've been pretty busy, from what I heard."

The sound of cutlery heralded Tim's cleaning the last of his plate, to Ducky's delight.

"Dessert, Timothy?"

"No thanks, Ducky. I'm surprised enough as it is, that I succeeded in finishing my plate! I feel like a stuffed duck…turkey, now." He patted his full stomach and stifled a burp. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten that much, after all.

"And to say that there are talks of closing down either the Stornoway or Shetland Coastguard Stations, leaving only the Aberdeen one! I can't believe they want to cut down on the rescue services! The Western Isles are too often battered by the Atlantic gales. I mean, how many more lives must be lost before the politicians see sense?"

They both ordered a cup of tea which would help digest the food and took it outside to enjoy it, basking in the sun like tourists making the most of a leisurely lazy afternoon.

At some point, Tim went back inside to wash his hands. When he returned to his seat, he deposited a flyer on the table which Ducky picked up to read.

"There's a poster hanging in the restroom."

"Midsummer celebrations? Well, well, well..."

"Aine will be performing at..." He leaned forward to squint at the flyer. "the ceilìdh tonight. Ducky, I can recommend her. You should hear her sing and play the harp!"

"Hm... Good idea, Timothy. We might just as well enjoy ourselves a bit. After all, we're on holidays, aren't we?"

Tim smiled and closed his eyes, letting the warm June sun bathe his face.

After a while, Tim pushed himself up from his chair with some reluctance...and another stretch. He had truly felt at ease and this hadn't happened for a long time.

"Well, I'm going over to Mungo's, getting my stuff. I don't want to impose on his hospitality any longer and since Mairi hasn't yet let the room I occupied...before..."

Ducky remained seated, not even opening his eyes.

"Good. I'll see you at the B&B, then."

- -.-. -. . .

When Tim arrived at the MacAskill cottage, he found the old crofter working on his patch of vegetables.

"What are you doing, Mungo?"

"Hawkin' tatties, what else? Want t'eat sumphing? Then we needs tatties."

"Well, eh... Thanks, but I've already had lunch." Tim chuckled.

"Dinner then. You're all skin and bones, lad."

That wasn't exactly a reminder Tim appreciated, but he held his tongue. He'd wish people would stop commenting on his appearance.

"Uhm... I'm going back to the Mystic Haar, Mungo." He informed the other softly.

At this, the man straightened his giant frame to look Tim in the eye. There were occasions Tim couldn't help but feel a little intimidated by the tall crofter.

"I...I can't stay here, Mungo. I've been a burden to you and I don't want to take up any more of your time."

The man raised his eyebrows as if he couldn't quite follow.

"You've been no burden, Timothy."

"You took care of me. You took me into your house...a total stranger! You've already done more than any other person would."

Mungo started to protest but Tim raised his hand to stop him.

"No, Mungo. You have!"

The crofter's eyes held a strange light. "You were hardly a total stranger, Timothy."

Now Tim was the one looking puzzled, but then shook his head to dismiss it.

"Wha...what d'you mean? Of course I was! And I still am. What would you know about me? You know nothing, Mungo."

The other didn't reply straightaway. Instead, he motioned to Tim to follow him.

When they both arrived at the front of the croft, Mungo pointed a big finger towards a bundle which lay right on his doorstep.

Tim gaped at it.

"What's that? What's that for?"

"What day are we?"

"Eh..." For once, Tim was nonplussed by this question. Yeah... What day were they, in fact? He was having a vacation – there was no need to bother about what date they were. It wasn't like he was returning to work any time soon, either. Nevertheless, it wasn't like him to completely forget such matters. So, yes, he was rather surprised: both at the question as well as his own inability to remember a simple fact as...the current date.

"It's Midsummer! The 21st of June, Timothy. Midsummer."

Tim didn't get it. All he saw was a very exited Mungo MacAskill who now even seemed of a more towering height than usual.

He spread his hands and pulled his face into one question. "Soooo? What about it? What has that to do with these...rushes?"

Mungo could only stare at him and Tim was definitely feeling more uncomfortable by the minute wondering what the heck he'd said or done wrong now. He was feeling rather stupid, all of a sudden, and hoped with all his heart it hadn't anything to do with his accident having affected his brain or something. That would be the most disturbing notion of all. One that had his heart rate up and fluttering like a bird's.

Then, his face brightened. And so did Mungo's as he noticed the change in Tim.

"So you guys still celebrate this day? This...," pointing both indexes to the pile of green rushes and raising his eyebrows, "is an offering? Like for a harvest or something?"

Then, he laughed incredulously. He found it hard to comprehend how people these days would still believe in this superstitious falderol. That was so absurd.

But then he realized how his laugh must have sounded and he had at least the grace to blush apologetically. "Sorry, Mungo, I...I didn't mean it that way."

Mungo shrugged it off good naturedly. "Oh that's alright. This, my good lad, is a tribute to Manannàn Mac Lir that is to be paid each midsummer."

"You are serious..."

Mungo cupped his chin in his right hand as he stared quizzically at the bunch on his doorstep.

"Though it beats me who put it there. It's been ages since this has been done. It's more something a Manxman would do. They still have their annual festival, believe it or not."

"Okay, so you say. But why here? Now?" Tim frowned. Something was eluding him and he didn't like that. He stooped to pick up a few stems and pensively rolled them through his fingers.

"Because you are Manannàn Mac Lir. Of course you must be testing us. You want us to find out about your identity ourselves. Yes." Mungo softly, and a little reverently, explained, never letting his eyes leave Tim's face.

At this revelation, Tim simply stood there, catching flies.

Now this was way beyond ridiculous, Tim thought. Not daring to laugh again, it felt a little unsettling, though, how this good man would associate him with an pagan Celtic deity. Manannàn Mac Lir, indeed! Him? Timothy McGee of all beings?

"Mungo...this isn't... I'm just an ordinary guy." He whined.

He cleared his throat. "'Kay, they have called me many names, but never that. Elf Lord, okay. McGPS, Aquasmurf..."

"Elf Lord?" Mungo snickered but quickly bit it off when he saw Tim's glare.

Tim rolled his eyes and sighed before explaining.

"Elf Lord's my gaming persona. I'm a gamer, Mungo. Online computer games, you know?"

"And Aquasmurf? Is that for another of yon games? Besides that, why ever would they call you those names?" Even if he couldn't keep himself from asking – he really wanted to know - Mungo now behaved as if treading on thin ice, which was, of course, unnecessary. He couldn't know that. He honestly didn't know if he were now talking to Timothy McGee, the humble human or the pagan god Manannàn Mac Lir. And that one had better not be angered.

"Actually, the pagan practice of offerings, like those rushes at Midsummer, never quite died out." A new, yet familiar voice was heard, and both men spun around towards Aine.

"Here we go again." Tim thought, his eyes to the ground as if engrossed in deep study.

She approached them and, brushing them aside, she bent down to pick up some stems of the rushes herself before continuing what she had started saying.

"In veneration of Manannan, the Manx people used to bring green rushes, sometimes meadow grass, to the top of South Barrule, a hill on the Isle of Man.

Now Tim was getting really annoyed.

"Aine. Please, don't you tell me you also believe this crap?"

Mungo quickly looked the other way. He literally had to bite his tongue or he'd have spilled then and there about Aine's – the mythological Aine – connection to Manannàn. It was clear as daylight that Tim would never believe anyway. No matter how Tim looked at it; he'd find out soon enough. For now, he wasn't ready to deal with his identity.

Aine blushed but then crossed her arms in anger.

"And what crap exactly are you talking about, Timothy McGee?"

A little taken aback, Tim stuttered.

"Th...this... All this Manannan stuff. You all talk about him as if he were some real life being!" He pointed a finger at Mungo, or at least, he thought so, until he found the crofter was no longer standing there but had simply walked away, back to his back yard and his...precious tatties.

"Mungo insists I am Manannan! C'mon! Aine! Hello – wake up! This is the 21st century, remember? No place for gods or mythological figures or legendary heroes! I don't care if this place is infested with pixies, leprechauns or...or...gnomes!"

Without knowing, he had raised his voice and his green eyes were sparkling like the precious stones in Manannàn's magical helmet.

"No need yelling at me like that." Aine retorted hotly. "I was just explaining about the rushes. No need to be peeved the way you are."

They stared each other down for a long minute. A strong gust of wind whipped Aine's beautiful hair into her face. Tim was mesmerized by it. How he longed to run his fingers through her silky hair.

Then, just as Aine was about to turn on her heels and walk back to the village, Tim exhaled in a long deep breath and quickly stepped forward to touch her shoulder.

The wind dropped again to a soft sea breeze.

"Aine! Wait!"

She flinched, but for only for the briefest of moments. Yet, he had noticed. He pulled his hand back as if electrocuted. In fact, he felt like an electrical current had run through his body.

Uh-oh...

"Why are you here anyway?" He asked.

"I came to ask you if you'd like to join us for a ceilìdh tonight." She shrugged and turned away from him once more, calling over her shoulder, "But I think you may find better things to do than spend the evening with people who may still be thrilled by some old, stupid myths and legends."

Inside, he was positively screaming, but he vouched he'd show none of that. Instead, he again thrust out his hand as if to touch her shoulder.

"Wait!" He commanded.

She came to a halt at the rough ring of his voice; an unprecedented huskiness. One he wouldn't have recognized himself.

"I'm sorry...if I insulted you," He looked back to where Mungo had disappeared. "...and Mungo."

He stepped closer and stared at her back. Tim helplessly dropped his hands by his side and licked his lips.

"Just...just let me grab my things and we can walk back to the village together. How does that sound?"

He waited, anticipating, hoping...

"Aine? Please?" He cocked his head expectantly.

Finally, she stirred and turned around and looked at him. Really looked at him. As if for the first time, and her gaze softened at what she saw in his face. She understood how he felt. As she understood Mungo's beliefs.

He gave her a lopsided grin and, hopping over the bunch of rushes, dashed inside the cottage.

It didn't take long before he came running out the door again, dumped his backpack on the little gravel path, loped around the croft to say some placating words to Mungo and back again to shoulder his backpack and walk Aine back to the village.

- -.-. -. . .


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

As the only hall within miles large enough to hold a ceilidh, a crowd of locals and tourists had already gathered inside by the time they arrived. Ducky and Tim had lost heart as their eyes scanned the place for a seat until they noticed Mungo waving them over, beaming.

Remembering what Mungo had said, Tim wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained himself from doing so just in time as he and Ducky walked over to plop down on the chairs Mungo had kept for them.

Tim was relieved the old man didn't mention Manannàn again and for once he was happy to let Ducky babble, even if he had to strain his ears to hear what his friend was saying over the noise.

Then, Aine appeared by their table and Tim promptly got up to offer his chair – there was no other free one left – which she declined with a broad smile and a nod of her head in the direction of a corner close to, what was to be the stage, where she'd left a stool and her harp.

Tim could slap himself. Where were his powers of observation? Besides, he knew she was going to play, tonight. It was ceilidh night, after all.

She drew the stool near to the table and sat down, having some time left before it was her turn to perform.

Soon, a ceilidh band launched an energetic tune and people made their way to the dance floor. It was the signal for Aine to take Tim's drink, an Irn Bru, from his hands and set it down on the table to drag him off and into the dance himself.

After the one dance, however, Aine had to admit shamefacedly that Tim still was in no condition to swirl and reel.

When he saw Tim stumble after the last turn, Ducky was about to leap up and help his friend back to his chair, but Tim quickly waved him off as he, rather breathlessly, made his way back to their table.

"My dear Timothy!" Ducky exclaimed worriedly. "Is it wise to stay for the ceilidh? You really forgot yourself there, didn't you, lad?"

Tim sank down in his chair and took a gulp from his Irn Bru, Scotland's famous fluorescent energy drink.

"Pfew!...That...that was intense!" He fished a hanky from his pants and wiped his sweating brow. He was still breathing heavily and, leaning back, he closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Mallard. I'd..."

Tim waved his hand vaguely without opening his eyes. "J..just...drop it, Aine... Not your fault."

He took another swig from the energy drink. For this once, he didn't bother how many calories his body was absorbing.

"Just a little dizzy. And that's over. No sweat."

"Timothy..."

"Is okay, Ducky. Won't leave my chair unless for a visit to the restroom or another drink." He grinned. "Let's just enjoy the...craic...right?"

Ducky gave him a long despairing look and sighed. This young man...oh, and every other member on Jethro's team, would be the death of him yet.

They talked a lot, too. Mungo was a very entertaining fellow and Tim was pleased not much input was expected since Mungo and Ducky got along quite well, regaling one another with the most fantastic tales.

As Tim just sat there, taking in the vibrant atmosphere, a girl walked hesitantly up to him and handed him a Rubik's Cube.

It made him smile.

He'd often played with those 3-D puzzles in his youth. Magic Cubes. Well, there was nothing magic about them, he knew. Merely pure logic. Nothing more, nothing less.

As a boy, he loved 3-D puzzles... Rubik's Cube was only the beginning and he got more intricate and challenging variations of these cubes to solve. He'd once got a V-Cube 7. It was only a small step towards the virtual puzzles in 3-4-5D.

It was like breaking a code. Take the original Magic Cube. It consists of twenty-six miniature cubes, has eight corners, twelve edges, white and five colors... All this giving 43,252,003,274,489,856,000 permutations.

Therefore, Tim without thinking accepted the multicolored cube and promptly started to twist and rotate the mechanism like he hadn't done anything else in his life. In no time, he had arranged the 26 cubelets into 6 faces of equal color. He played some more with the cube, completely heedless of the audience he was drawing. His nimble fingers led a life of their own as they speedily scrambled the cube up again and proceeded to readjust the miniature cubes back into a different pattern.

He beckoned the girl closer and started explaining how it was done. She was enraptured, yet a quick learner as he patiently went through the basic algorithms with her.

Tim was so pre-occupied by the cube that he never noticed the crowd that had gathered at their table. The band had stopped for a break and the merry dancers had all gone back to their tables, except for the number of people who were now in awe of Tim's tricks with the Magic Cube.

Even Ducky was quite impressed.

Aine tried to follow and memorize the different steps Tim was doing, flipping, turning, rotating the cube in his hands.

Mungo, needless to say, saw Manannàn at play. Unbeknownst to himself, Tim was entertaining the audience with his tricks, and that, to Mungo, was yet again proof of the living myth of Manannán Mac Lir.

The cube went from Tim's to the girl's hands and back and forth until she got better at solving the puzzle by herself. Then, she ran off to her place again to show off her newly acquired skills to her friends.

Tim finally looked up and upon seeing the crowd around him, he grinned sheepishly and directed his full attention to his orange drink. Like checking for a wasp somehow having fallen into his drink?

Aine got up and left to tune her clarsàch and get ready for her gig. Mungo, having offered to get the next round of drinks, sauntered over to the bar for three pints of Hebridean Gold from the cask that had been delivered for this occasion.

The hall went quiet when a young man, having first been introduced as the Uist represenative at Am Mòd Nàiseanta Rìoghail or the Royal National Mod and having won a prize there, lilted a long poem in the Gaelic tongue. Tim didn't understand one word of what was recited, but he could appreciate the melodious voice and the euphony.

Then, a timid eight year old took the floor telling a story of the adventure of four cute little Selkie children.

Over the recent years, Aine had explained, there had been a significant swelling in numbers of people speaking the Gaelic language. The opinions were mostly mixed as many didn't see any sense in teaching kids a language that was on the brink of extinction and spend so much money in the programs. Others, though, welcomed the renewed interest with open arms. The pride of the Scottish people, in particular the inhabitants of the Highlands and Islands, made it happen, however, to restore this sense of Scottish identity by keeping Gaelic alive. Cùm Gàidhlig Beò.

This small youth was the living example of the revival, the renaissance of an old language. The language of the Gaels.

A short break and then Aine was on.

At the sound of her voice and her harp, Tim felt his heart melt.

When Ducky turned to Tim to say something, he couldn't help but notice the young man's vacant look. Then, Tim seemed to slump in his chair, letting out a long sigh and closing his eyes.

Worried, Ducky cautiously took Tim's wrist to check his pulse and found it surprisingly steady. Tim didn't even notice. His eyes remained shut and he kept a steady breathing rhythm. To all outward appearances, he might have been sleeping. In reality, he was simply enthralled by her beautiful voice; dreaming she was singing to him. Maybe she was.

Mungo's keen eyes had noticed the sudden change as well and he shared a knowing look with Ducky.

When Aine had played the last chord, she got up and took the applause with grace. Her eyes connected with the American's green ones and they both felt like they were the only present in this hall. All other sound and movement seemed to have come to a halt.

Then, Tim loudly applauded, too, and there seemed to be no stopping him. Aine smiled and her eyes never left his.

- -.-. -. . .


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The next days, Tim and Ducky went hiking until they felt like they knew every nook and cranny of Uist. This meant both the South and the North islands with the inclusion Benbecula, Berneray, Grimsay...

Even though they travelled at a pace more fitting Ducky's age and Tim still not feeling at his best, they felt much invigorated after the long walks and cycling tours. The refreshing salty air and the scent of the machair worked wonders and with each passing day, Tim looked more his former healthy self again.

In the evenings, they were happy to stretch their weary legs in front of a peat fire. Ducky was usually engrossed in one of the books the B&B's library had to offer, whilst Tim logged into Skype to bring his family and the team up -to-date on his Uist adventures. Needless to say, he was taking great care to leave anything out on the subject of Manannan Mac Lir. He saw no sense in worrying the home front about his little misadventure on the beach, either. Eventually, they would hear the whole story, but not from him, not now.

Invariably, the combination of spending the days outdoors plus the warmth of the peat fire resulted in having both men drowsy and retiring to their room a lot earlier than normal.

One day, they were both sitting on a low wall, overlooking Lochmaddy harbour. They sat in companionable silence eating their take-away lunch which consisted of roast chicken sandwiches with veggies, an apple, yogurt and a bottle of water.

Tim took a swig from his bottle of water and recapped it, squinting at the sky.

"We're in for a blow, soon."

Ducky turned from looking at the big squawking seagulls.

Then he gazed up the sky, shading his eyes, before turning back to Tim, shaking his head incredulously.

"Really? How can you tell? Timothy. It's a near perfect blue sky! Hardly a speck of white. Whatever makes you think there'll be a storm?"

Tim smiled and lowered his gaze towards Ducky.

"There. You just said it yourself, Ducky. A 'near perfect' blue sky. Blue, yes. But those" he pointed towards the filigree white, veiling the sky blue, "are clouds and a sky dotted with those is commonly known as a 'mackerel sky'."

He nodded and pulled off the lid from his yogurt and started spooning.

"There's a saying: 'Mackerel skies and mare's tails, sailors furl their sails.' Don't you know the weather lores?"

"No I don't, Timothy. I do know the one of 'Red sky at night, sailor's delight' though. I am, however, impressed by your meteorological knowledge.

"Yeah, a popular one, that. My dad...he just loved... Correction: 'loves' sharing mariners' traditional knowledge with us. Came in pretty handy during my days with the Webelos when we organized treks in the national parks. Anyway, that's what folk did in the old days when there were no measuring instruments to enable reliable weather forecasts. People in those days observed patterns in the weather. There's no myth in that, Ducky, but observation. No more. I could give you a lecture about different types of clouds. Dad was rather passionate about meteorology. He had to be, as a Navy commander."

They were silent for some time, watching the fishermen arrive to ready their vessels before sailing out.

"I'll give you another one."

"When the wind is blowing in the North  
>No fisherman should set forth,<br>When the wind is blowing in the East,  
>'Tis not fit for man nor beast,<br>When the wind is blowing in the South  
>It brings the food over the fish's mouth,<br>When the wind is blowing in the West,  
>That is when the fishing's best!"<p>

"I know for a fact we'll have a bad day on the beach soon." Tim concluded.

"How soon, according to your weather lore observation, Timothy?"

"Oh, I could give you an educated guess, I suppose. How about this: within the next 36 hours?"

"And then we're in for a full blow storm, you say?"

"Ohhhh...yeah..." Tim nodded excitedly. "A big storm from the west. Big time, Ducky. Big time. I wouldn't venture out at sea when it strikes." He gave a nervous laugh. "As if I ever would with my history of sea sickness."

He gazed intently to the west. Then, the cry of a seagull attracted his attention and his eyes followed the bird's flight for a considerable time, interpreting its circular flight patterns as a sure sign of the impending gale.

"There's a storm brewing, no mistake." He muttered.

And then he shuddered at the thought of the unfortunate fisherman who'd been cast overboard to end up with him on a lonely beach.

"Beggin' your pardon, Sirs." One of the local fishermen stopped in front of them, blocking the sun with his bulk. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but...didn't you just mention there's going to be a big storm heading this here place?"

"Er...y...yesss...? Uhm... You're not going out, are you?" Tim asked the men, for several others had joined, by now.

"We may be in for a little splat of rain, lad. Surely not a storm?" An older, weather beaten fisherman laughed. "Them clouds sure will give rain. Ye got that right, young feller." And he walked away.

The first man, though, was in no way reassured and crossed his heart sending out a little, silent prayer to the heavens for a safe catch..

There were still some men left staring at Tim and Ducky, though. Then it dawned on Tim that, maybe thanks to Mungo, now half the island knew about him as the stranger who ended up semi-naked on a beach next to a corpse as well as being the reincarnation of some Celtic deity.

He sighed and started to grab his things. Ducky followed suit, not entirely understanding Tim's sudden haste to walk off again.

One man, however, didn't think of letting both men go just like that.

"Er...hold on a sec. Please."

Tim did stop, but not only because the man had asked him to. No. Something else had occurred to him. He was thinking back to the previous day's excursion - those midges could bite something furious - and night when they'd sat in front of the peat fire. Maire's cat had been sitting there, too, her back turned to the fireplace. Cats with their backs to the fireplace... Definitely a storm.

He hadn't realized he'd voiced his thoughts aloud until he noticed the man's anxious face.

"Just...remembering adages... Red sky at morning, sailors take warning and patati-patata..." He grinned self-consciously hoping the men would just leave.

"You're Manannan Mac Lirl! The Son of the Sea! Big Mungo is right!" The superstitious fisherman turned towards the others. "You hear that, mateys? There's a tempest coming this way, he's said!"

"Hey! I didn't say that!" Tim countered. "No-no-nooooo. Okay, it's gonna rain... in for a bad spell of weather... I was just..." He gulped and looked down at his hiking boots.

"Whatever. Give us your blessing for a safe return. It's all we ask."

He should've gotten used to this whole absurd situation by now, but there he was; mouth agape and eyes popping.

One fisherman embarked on an air while the others just stood by, nodding in agreement.

"Mananan Beag Mac Lir  
>Little Mananan Son of the Sea<br>Who blessed our Island  
>Bless us and our boat<br>Going out well, coming in better  
>With living and dead in our boat"<p>

Incongruously closing off with a more Christian "Amen"...as if it would make the difference.

Ducky had never felt so out of place before and for once, he was left tongue tied.

A first.

And for the first time, too, Tim snorted and then broke into laughter at Ducky's baffled face. All this superstitious twaddle about him being this Manannan character had him somewhat annoyed, but this latest case of...worship...bestowed on his humble self, no less, incited this extra funny element in Ducky's comical reaction. Or rather, lack of reaction!

Ducky was ready to comment on Tim's sudden display of glee but refrained as he thought it an improvement to the younger man's previously morose behavior.

So he happily joined in and they both picked up their bags again, leaving the remaining fishermen rather befuddled.

- -.-. -. . .


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Ah, a very good afternoon, Dr. Mallard! If you're looking for Mr McGee, he's let me know he decided to go for a walk. For some 'fresh air' to be precisely."

Ducky turned towards Maire, her arms loaded with fresh towels for the vacated rooms as she climbed the last step to the first floor where he and Tim occupied a twin room.

"And would you have any idea where he was headed?"

"He did say something about wanting to go for a jog along the beach."

She disappeared into a room from where Ducky could still hear her talking.

"A glorious day for a run, wouldn't you agree, Dr. Mallard? Good for him, anyroad. Mr McGee's health seems to have improved over the last week."

Maire smiled as she emerged from the room and accompanied Ducky down and back to the main room. She nodded towards his own pair of the sturdiest shoes he owned.

"Also fancying a nice invigorating walk stroll along the mighty Atlantic?"

"Indeed, Maire. I think I'll go and see if I can find my young friend there. See you later, Maire."

"Toodle-oo, then."

- -.-. -. . . 

A lonely figure slowly walked along the seemingly endless belt of sand. Not another soul around. And there, proud atop a dune, manes flowing in the wind, which had picked up dramatically over the past hour, stood the white pony.

This four legged sentry was taking in the dark ocean, the chasing clouds, the white breakers, the lonely man...

...who had now stopped and, bracing himself against the increasingly strong gusts of wind, stood very tall facing the west, trekking pants rolled up to his knees and boots dangling by the laces from his hand. His face held a smile of pure contentment as he leaned his head back and took deep oxygen rich and iodine filled breaths. Spindrift had gathered around his bare feet which sunk ever deeper into the fine wet sand as the water rolled in and receded with the tide. The large body of water – the ocean – with its swell acting like a pulse, was breathing: in...and out...and in again...and out... Like a living thing. The sound of the surge like the sound of life itself. And he, himself, had never felt so much alive before. Fortified in spirit and in body by the Hebridean sea-spume filled air.

Tim felt it like waves pulsing through every fiber of his body. A connection he'd never felt so strong before. Neither had he ever felt this poetic urge to shout from the top of his lungs... "Thalassa! Thalassa!"... As in Xenophon's Anabasis 'Thalatta, Thalatta!' Oh, but how he was tempted to do just that. Still, he was held back by his innate sense of reservation.

Rooted in the shallow water with the long line of rollers breaking around his legs to die on the sand as the tide crept inshore, he cherished the sea wind brush his face, sweep through his hair which was now of a length it would drape across his eyes if he didn't brush it aside. He brought up his hand to do just that, feeling how his hair was tousled, coarse with sea salt and sand..

He finally decided to move on but had only progressed a few steps when the wind carried a hail towards him.

"Ti-mo-thyyy!"

Turning back and squinting, he could just make out Ducky walking at as brisk a pace as he could.

Tim waited till the other man had caught up and, together, they walked a little further towards a rocky outcrop at which very base the ocean already lapped.

They were both debating whether they'd return to the Mystic Haar or not and decided they would walk a little further.

Of course Tim and Ducky had observed the gathering clouds but, heck!, who was afraid of a little rain?

"...or a little wind?" Tim thought before a gust of wind knocked Ducky's cap from his head having the doctor dash after it before it was blown any further and out of reach.

Tim was about to break into a run after it, too, but when he noticed the hat's tumbleweed trajectory had landed it between those rocks not too far off, he decided to continue in his leisurely pace. The hat wasn't going anywhere.

Ducky wasn't going that fast anymore, either. When he reached the rocks, he was just about to climb them in search of his errant cap.

"No way." Tim thought as he lengthened his stride. He wouldn't readily call the ME an old man, but still! He didn't want to think of anything happening to Ducky! Good heavens!

"Ducky!" He hollered in an attempt to make himself heard above the wind. "Just leave it be, I'll be there in a sec anyway. Let me get it for you."

As a powerful winds slammed the beach and now Tim was truly getting worried as he spared the darkening skies above him a brief glance before breaking into a run.

Ducky, though, either hadn't heard Tim's shout over the gathering Hebridean storm or he'd simply ignored his younger friend's warning. He slowly, yet deliberately, clambered over the stones in search of his cap.

Ducky was stooped and seemed to be pulling at something before straightening himself again, a look of eureka on his face, waving the retrieved cap like a trophy above his head.

Tim was barely two yards away from his friend when, suddenly, a loud thunderclap made both men look up sharply, causing Ducky to slip on the wet, algae- and seaweed-covered stones.

To his horror, Tim saw Ducky lose his footing, arms flailing to regain his balance...in vain. The doctor was no match to the oil slick surface of the rocks.

Tim lurched forward in an effort to stabilize Ducky. "Oh no. No-no-no-no-noooo..." Tim kept muttering as he caught and held onto Ducky's arm thus breaking the fall somewhat. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.

The doctor cried out in pain as he felt his ankle twist rather sharply to end up firmly wedged between the rocks and no amount of pulling could free the trapped limb.

"Aw! Bugger it!" Ducky snapped, voice shaky with the pain as well as irritation at his at his rash action which had him end up in this situation. "Stupid!"

"Not stupid, Ducky." Tim replied as he bent down to survey how much damage Ducky had suffered. "An accident. Just an accident."

"A stupid accident, then." Ducky grumbled and then nearly bit his tongue as pain lanced through his ankle when he shifted to a better position.

Tim accidentally brushed his injured ankle which had Ducky cry out.

"Dammee, Timothy McGee! Have a care, will you? You hurt me!"

"Sorry, Ducky. Really." Tim chewed his lower lip as he struggled to get the ankle free, doing his best to avoid causing the doctor any more pain.

The rapidly incoming tide and the torrential rain, pummelling them and soaking them to the bone in the process, didn't facilitate things in the slightest!

As hard as Tim pushed at the stones, they simply wouldn't budge. Ducky's foot was pinned between the rocks.

In spite of the rain, Tim was soon in a sweat. He brushed the wet hair from his eyes, looking despairingly around him for something to aid him in freeing the stuck and obviously injured Ducky. Not a piece of driftwood on this whole damned beach when you needed it! The billowing waves were getting closer, too. Occasionally, gusts of wind had sprayed them with sea water.

Manannàn's horses... They weren't helping. Rather the contrary... Tim felt anger building deep inside him.

With that anger fuelling his efforts and grunting with the strain, he went back to the pulling and pushing with all his might and in extreme hurry. The time glass was running empty of sand...

Soon his hands were badly cut and bruised with the abusive activity on their part. He didn't feel any of this as he was too intent on saving his friend's life from the fast incoming tide. A racing tide... A race against time...

All the while, Tim was cursing under his breath for having ventured out on the beach when he knew a storm was on its way to batter the islands. His forced holiday on the windswept Hebridean isles had lulled his usually cautious mind and today, having still time to kill until dinner, he hadn't spared a second's thought before slipping out of the B&B for a solitary walk on the beach. He liked the doctor, but there were times he craved for a little solitude, to be alone with his own, if occasional chaotic, thoughts.

No, he hadn't thought much of the foreboding clouds and the fast approaching darkness. The rip and roaring storm had seemingly struck out of the blue.

However, with Ducky in quite a pickle, he had soon to come up with some ideas as to how to get the necessary help to free the doctor.

In great pain, Ducky held his eyes tightly shut and his jaw in a deadlock. By Jove, he was not going to cry out if he could help it! He knew Tim was doing everything to get him off the rocks and he sure didn't want to distract his friend in his efforts. Instead, he gripped his uninjured leg with both hands. He wasn't exactly lying in the most comfortable position, either. The hard rocks beneath him made a poor bed... Soon, he was feeling pins and needles from the cramped, twisted and spiking position.

As if sensing this, Tim suddenly straightened up and quickly pulled off his coat and jumper and spread one garment under Ducky and the coat over his friend, making sure he was as comfortable as his current situation permitted. At least, Ducky would be a little better protected against the elements.

All sorts of thoughts ran through his head, which, oh joy!, was hurting again with the strain. The islanders were thinking of him being a great almighty Sea God, for God's sake! Or the son of one... Tschah! Did it matter which, really? He cast another glance behind him, at the ocean in fury... Not much he could do, could he? Fine specimen of a Sea God...or whatever...he was, he bitterly thought, lips firmly compressed as he was wont to do when hyper concentrated or obstinate like he was at this moment.

He was suddenly jerked from his thoughts by a hand squeezing his shoulder and, sliding down, pulling at his shirt rather urgently.

"Stop, Timothy." Ducky's voice sounded coarse and brittle which had Tim stare at him in deep concern. He had seldom seen the doctor like this.

"But...but..."

Ducky shook his head emphathically.

"No, Timothy. It's...it's no...use."

More spray hit both men.

"It's no use. No time! Running out of time! You must leave me here and...and...run for help."

"No, Ducky!" Tim continued to try and bring some movement into the rocks. "Not gonna to leave you behind. M...ma-rines...have..." He swallowed and panted. "...have...each other's sixes!"

It didn't matter he was not a Marine. His boss was, though: once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi!

"Please, Timothy. Think, lad!" The doctor urged.

And think he did... Yes, what Ducky said, was true. He couldn't do this alone. He wasn't strong enough.

Help. He'd have to get help. More hands. Pronto!

With one last look into Ducky's pleading eyes, he purposefully scrambled to his feet and, trying his best not to slip himself or inadvertently step into a crevasse – he wanted to avoid Sod's law to turn this into a worse catastrophe at all costs – he got off the rocks to stand there, shivering, in the chiseling wind and pouring rain.

He ran both hands through his hair. Standing there, alone but for Ducky who lay nearby rather uncomfortably, in much pain, and with little shelter, he seemed forlorn. A man on the beach surrounded by the elements at large. Clouds chasing, heavy seas roaring and ominously creeping in to devour his helpless friend.

Help came in the form of the white pony flying down the slope of the dune and making a beeline for Tim.

Tim was only momentarily perplexed and involuntarily backed away when the pony came to a sliding halt right in front of him. Then, without giving it too much further thought, he grabbed a handful of mane and hauled himself on the horse's bare back. He kicked it into a canter with an ease that would have one think he'd done nothing else in his life and set off on a hellbent ride towards the nearest cottage; Mungo's.

Now, while it's a delight for many to ride a pony on a beach near the lapping fringe of the sea, to Tim it had become a matter of life and death.

Manannàn Mac Lir and Enbarr of the Flowing Mane, the horse that could travel like the wind over sea as well as land, were on a rescue mission.

Along the beach, thousands of horses rode the waves steadily creeping inland and towards the forlorn figure stuck on the rocks...

- -.-. -. . .


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Tim's bruised hands gripped tightly at the hor...Enbarr's...mane as he lay bent low over the horse's neck.

Had there been any passers-by in this ungodly weather, they might have gasped and, maybe, been scared silly, even crossed themselves! There was a surreal quality about this menacing...apparition...of the rider and his pale mount, reminiscent of the Grim Reaper, hurrying along on his hellbent ride to God knew where.

As to the 'spectre' himself: Tim saw nothing of the landscape rolling by, his eyes staring vacantly in the gloomy distance ahead. His lips were moving, but no sound passed them. His soaked T-shirt and pants clung to his body like a second skin and his hair streamed in the wind, weighed down by the rain. Tim's bare skin, shining with water, was dotted with goosebumps but he felt none of the cold.

And Enbarr untiringly coursed on, ears pointed forward and nostrils flaring. His hoofs never even seemed to touch the ground. He flew through the water, causing much splashing where his hoofs plunged in the surf. His chest glistened and in his wake, more of Manannàn's Horses roared inshore. Lightning added more drama to this tragedy in the making.

Tragedy? Not if he could help it, Tim grimly thought.

Then horse and rider plodded through the soft sand, barely slowing down, and up the lower dune that separated Mungo MacAskill's cottage from the beach below.

It didn't even register to Tim he was so comfortably seated on the horse's bare back. He had mounted horses before, but he wasn't exactly a seasoned horseman.

Sending a prayer of relief to the weeping heavens above, Tim slid off Enbarr's back, nearly going to his knees the moment his feet touched ground. His legs were shaking so badly he thought he'd left them still attached to Enbarr. A sudden weakness made him feel unsteady and a little giddy, too. He deliberately shook the annoying tremors by striding to Mungo's door. Eureka! It worked!

His euphoria was short-lived, though.

He banged on the door. When nothing happened, he added a little hollering in accompaniment to the tattoo on the door.

"Mungoooo! Open up! I need your help! Please open up!"

All his urgent calling remained unanswered as well with the inevitable result he got a little frustrated until it struck him Mungo was most likely down at the village pub on this day.

Without another thought, he spun on his heels and once more, with a grunt, swung his body atop Enbarr and, once again, plunged into a wild ride, but now in the direction of the village.

This was no fancy ride, but Enbarr held his way as man and mount crossed the machair, scaring into flight a flock of swans they passed by. Between them, they sent clods of earth this way and that. Enbarr kept his pace on the rough terrain that was boggy in many places.

Had the situation less dire, Tim might have felt exhilarated – maybe even whooping in total abandonment...at one with nature.

Once, Tim nearly fell off Enbarr and only stayed upright by one hand holding on to the horse's manes, the other firmly around his neck, and pressing his knees in Enbarr's flanks.

At long last – it felt like the ride had lasted hours – he more fell than slid off Enbarr's back and he had to lean against the horse to get his breath back, still liking the physical contact he had with the animal. He was breathing hard and he swore he could hear the thudding of his racing heart – or was it Enbarr's? He didn't know any longer and he didn't care, either. All that mattered now was Ducky. It was Ducky's life that hung by a silver thread.

Little stars darted in and out of his vision and he had to blink a few times to clear it. By then, people had filtered out of the pub and onto the street to see what all the hullabaloo was about. It was still raining, but no longer the fat drops the darkened skies had unleashed before. Above all, it was hardly an everyday occurrence to hear horse neigh and unshod hoofs hit the asphalt in front of their pub!

Tim let go of the support and stumbled towards the door, legs feeling like mush. Someone – two someones – were by his side and supported him by holding him firmly by the elbows and waist till his legs could carry him again without threatening to buckle.

"Mungo..." he panted, looking from one to the other and then the crowd at large.

Enbarr stood by, head up as if the hellish ride had meant nothing to him. An occasional snort and a scraping hoof seemed to punctuate Tim's urgent questions.

"Where's Mungo MacAskill?" Tim's voice sounded hoarse.

Then Mungo was right in front of him, impatiently brushing the others aside who were still flanking Tim, just in case...

"Timothy McGee." He took in Tim's sodden and weary, slightly haunted, appearance and knew.

"Dr. Mallard..." He said, and saw his suspicion confirmed by the flash in Tim's eyes.

"Please, hurry..." Tim pleaded. "The tide's rising fast. He hasn't much longer."

He vaguely remembered someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. Another Samaritan had planted a mug in his shaking hands, filled with a hot liquid tasting like a melange of coffee and whisky rather sticking to the palate by the generous amount of sugar.

Feeling a little warmer inside, he did his best to explain in concise terms what had happened, in what state his friend was and the exact location of the accident.

Then, it seemed as everything happened at once as the whole community, which by now seemed to have gathered around him, saw there was no time to loose.

His words were barely cold, when, in no time at all, the dedicated locals had volunteered and had sprung into action. The closest Lifeboat stations being either on Barra or Lewis, it came to the locals to organize this rescue mission.

Some boatmen from the local salmon farm had offered a boat and others had assembled rescue kits and anything that might come in useful. A very old man – rather his young grandson - even brought what looked like a large, weathered, pole of sorts.

"Piece o' flotsam. Nuffink goes tae waste, here. Must've come from the Americas. Mebbe handy for leverage." He spat a large chunk of tobacco, as he and the lad and another man took the piece of driftwood timber to the boat.

Tim was thinking, rather incongruously, how this man looked pretty much like a piece of flotsam and jetsam himself.

It was decided they'd get there faster by boat than by car, which soon had the mob moving to the small quay where a handful of men expertly jumped into one of the boats.

The local vet offered to drive his Land Rover as close as possible, surmizing he would get there in time to transport the victim to the only hospital on the island if such be necessary. Aine hopped into the car, leaving Mungo in charge in the village.

Tim directed his steps towards the boat, but one of the men who was in the act of undoing the mooring lines, advised him to stay where he was.

"Sir, we know where it is. There really is no need for you to come with us. Please, let yourself be checked. Mungo will call for the doctor. You are obviously in need of medical help. We'll get your friend off those rocks."

Mungo tried to hold Tim back but the younger man, despite his not too peachy state, agilely worked his way past him, thinking what magic a mere flash of his NCIS badge could've worked, had he brought it with him; jurisdiction be damned.

Not heeding the man's objections, Tim descended the ladder and unceremoniously hopped into the boat, fixing the men with a glare cultivated by years of association with Gibbs. Thus he made it crystal clear he wasn't going anywhere else but with them to rescue his friend who was stuck on some sodden rocks on the most northern side of that beach.

The men sighed resignedly and, tossing a life jacket to Tim, powered the boat. Tim slid down to the bottom, little caring his butt was getting soaked more than it was already from his wild ride on a wet Enbarr, and it felt like it was already colder than the ass of a snowman. He quickly donned the life jacket, pausing and frantically grabbing a lifeline with every heavy bump on a wave.

When he was appropriately 'dressed', he sat up again and stared keenly ahead, his hair streaming behind him, the salt stinging his eyes and wind and spray whipping his face.

All the tossing and bopping made him slightly nauseous and dizzy – the headache had become his constant companion - but he stoically braved it out, unyielding stubbornness and determination fuelling his strength. He was getting more nervous and restless as the boat coursed along at its top speed.

The islanders handled the boat expertly in these treacherous conditions. Not that it was a smooth ride. Anything but! The waves were choppy and the boat appeared to jump them like a springbok. It was heavy going and there wasn't much longer Tim could endure this stomping. His stomach was in knots already.

Then, one of the men on the lookout shouted excitedly, jabbing his finger towards a spot at the end of the beach and the helmsman navigated the boat hence.

Tim crawled forward and peered intently in the gloom. Again, he felt his heart roaring wildly in his ears, anxious about what condition he would find Ducky in.

The heavy surf and adverse conditions worked against them as they tried to beach the boat. As soon as the bottom touched ground, Tim was out and plodding through the water and onto the beach, breaking into a run towards where he'd left Ducky, praying like he'd never done before in all his life.

More than once, he stumbled and cursed his clumsiness.

They all arrived at the rocks at the same time and found Ducky just moments away from drowning. His upper body and head were afloat but every now and then, a wave washed over him that left him spluttering and gasping for air. His body now being afloat combined with the current was pulling on his injured leg. No way could he endure this much longer.

Ducky was barely aware help had arrived. Tim, still having his life jacket on, positioned his body under Ducky's and took a hold under each of Ducky's armpits, thus keeping the weakening man in a more stable position. His backside connected painfully with the sharp rocks below.

"Hold on, Ducky." Tim was muttering encouraging words in the other's ears.

Ducky mumbled something incoherently.

"We'll get you out, soon. Promise."

The others had immediately set to work and discovered the pole did after all come in handy.

Another wave came rolling in and doused them all but the locals picked up where they'd left and after some considerable time, they managed to get the trapped foot loose, setting Ducky and Tim helplessly adrift in the surf. From one dangerous situation right into another.

Luckily, Tim succeeded in pushing both of them away from the rocks into the deeper water. Still holding Ducky whilst half breast stroking towards the beach, somewhat hampered by the clothes.

One of the men came alongside and, between them, they pulled Ducky onto dry land where Aine was waiting. The vet had made good time and both were waiting beside the Land Rover until their medical expertise was needed.

Now that they were both safe and sound again, Tim felt the sudden drop of the adrenaline rush and there was nothing left to keep him on his feet any longer so he simply folded into a sodden heap on the sand beside Ducky.

They were transported to the only hospital on the island where Tim was diagnosed with nothing worse than a very mild hypothermia, exhaustion and some cuts and bruises which would heal in no time. His hands looked worse than they actually were and were bandaged up.

Ducky was off a little worse, suffering a torn ligament in his ankle and a moderate hypothermia. His body showed multiple bruises and contusions, none of which were too bad.

- -.-. -. . .


	12. Chapter 12

**This is the final chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it. I also hasten to thank that bunch of loyal reviewers without whom I'd long have given up...writing. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Epilogue<strong>

**Lochboisdale Ferryterminal**  
><strong>Sout Uist<strong>

"Wait!" Aine called out at which Tim slowly turned to look at her. She ran towards him and took his hand, her eyes meeting his questioning ones.

Ducky, locked to his wheelchair, could do little else but just sit and wait. It did cross his mind to wheel away and enable the two to have some privacy before their paths plit. However, he settled with staying where he was and subjected the ground to a deep study.

Aine let go of Tim's hand, only to bring both hands up to the back of her neck where she unfastened a pendant necklace she was wearing. She held it in her hands, showing Tim who seemed enthralled by the small gold pendant.

"It's a triskelion," she explained, "and it's associated with..." and here she blushed as she hesitated, "Manannàn Mac Lir."

"Aine..." Tim began.

She shushed him and looked at the pendant, stroking the small item. Then, finally having come to a decision what to do with it, she stood on her toes and leaned close to Tim, their faces nearly touching, to fasten it at the nape of his neck.

Tim's breath hitched as the metal touched his skin and he ran his bruised fingers along the small ornament that felt still warm from lying close to her skin.

"This one's not the tre cassyn or "three legs", the emblem of the Isle of Man, as you might have expected. It's an older spiral symbol representing all important things that come in threes like earth, water and sky; or birth, death and re-birth; or even past, present and future." She waved her hands. "Oh, all kinds of things."

Tim swallowed. "Thank you, Aine. I..I..." Their eyes locked and there both sadness and longing in them for what could never be.

"Don't say a thing, Timothy McGee. Keep it. Just...see it this way: this triskele has chosen you. It's a charm and it's for protection. Maybe..." Here she hesitated. "Maybe Manannàn will look after you. Maybe he recognizes you and finds you worth protecting because you have a lot more in common with him than you'll ever realize yourself."

Tim thought about all the traits both Mungo and Aine had accredited to Manannàn.

"Well, for starters: I don't own a magic sword, boat, shield, cloak, horse...or whatever else. Nor am I much of a joker. And I really, honestly, don't master the elements. So it truly doesn't work to attribute his assets to me, Aine. I mean... I know you don't...really...but Mungo...and the others..."

She smiled and took his hand to squeeze it gently.

"But I trust you when you say he's a great deity and a good one...and...such... Whatever." He shrugged. "It's why I feel flattered, honored that you should compare me to him." A lopsided grin.

"Anyway, Tim. Just...accept Manannàn."

She pointed to the charm that glinted just below his jugular notch. "And let that help you – protect you." She laid the palm of her hand on his chest. "Like it or not, Timothy McGee, but you have Manannàn in you."

"Aine..." Tim protested and sighed.

Ducky, quite forgotten in his wheelchair, rolled his eyes. "_Here we go again..._"

She gave Tim a playful punch in the chest. "Hey! You're Special Agent Timothy McGee, aren't you?"

He frowned, wondering what she was up to now. "Yeahhh...? So?"

"When still with the Tuatha Dé Danann – the Fairy People – Manannán Mac Lir was a lawgiver. Just like you. And he had his weapons to help him with seeing justice was done. Again, just like you. You also carry a weapon. You play your tricks on those computers of yours. When you see those poor people, victims of some horrible crime...you want to offer them justice. In a way most of us don't understand, nor find it possible to agree with. But you - you help them cross over to the Otherworld, Afterlife. Accept it, Tim. It's who you are. Who you've always been."

"I'm not the only one, Aine... There are many of us...like me... My coworkers... _Ducky_, here!"

At the mention of his name, Ducky perked up. Aine smiled at him and left Tim's side to stand close to the ME.

"Dr. Mallard. Ducky. Of course, you are the one closest to those poor people who end up on your slabs." She leaned in and gave him a hug, which Ducky returned.

Tim chuckled behind her. "Now there's your man, Aine. Nobody on this planet who talks to the dead the way he does."

"Oh, at least I can no longer bore them do death with my legendary maundering."

The mood had considerably lightened and the three of them – triad...triskelion... - burst out laughing.

"It's an important aspect of our job to find out how a victim met his or her end. It enables us to learn more about the crime and why and by whom it was committed. Like Tim's job and all the others. Together, we solve crimes and see justice done. There's nothing magical about it, really."

"Ducky, it has been proved you're not the only one talking to the dead." Aine said. "You've got your worthy follower right here in Tim."

Tim felt his cheeks flush when he recalled his own 'bonding' with the corpse. There wasn't much he could add to that.

"Look, guys. Do we really need to talk about all that again? Now?" Inwardly, he couldn't help but think, "_I'm getting sick of all this Manannàn this and Manannàn that...and Manannàn here and Manannàn yonder..._"

Then, his slender fingers went back to the charm and he calmed. Actually, he felt a little ashamed at his whining, which could be interpreted as ingratitude. But neither seemed to have heard, or so pretended not to, and so Ducky blithely continued.

"Oh no, Aine. Not that. It really would never do to have Timothy working alongside me in Autopsy."

A surprised look full of dejection and disappointment showed on Tim's face at hearing this.

"Why not?" He blurted out, wanting to know and yet, at the same time, afraid of the answer he would get.

"Why, Timothy!" The doctor readily replied, unknown to him in what way his earlier remark had affected his friend. "Because we would both end up talking and talking and no work would ever get being done for all our babbling with the dead! That's why."

Both Ducky and Aine had witnessed the surprised look on his face and now they were happy to be rewarded with a smile of understanding spread across his face.

"You, Timothy, have your job as I have mine. Besides that, I already have found a worthy and most capable assistant in Mr Palmer."

"Oh!" Was all he could say to that. "Oh..."

"Not that I don't appreciate your presence in my domain. You know you're more than welcome for a wee chat now and then. Your job is stressful enough as it is, and you always find me more than ready to listen to your pains and woes."

"Uhm...Aine. Thank you for the gift, ...the...eh...triskelion. I'll always remember you by this keepsake." He looked into her eyes for a moment. "Aw, come here, you." And he pulled her into an embrace.

Ducky's polite cough finally broke the two apart and they stood staring at each other rather sheepishly.

Aine got on her toes and gave Tim one last peck on his cheek.

"Good-bye, Timothy McGee and...take care. Ducky, you too. Have a safe trip home."

She turned to go but then, faced them one last time. "Oh, by-the-way, Tim. Be sure I'll remember to leave my sheaves of rushes at Midsummer."

Tim's mouth dropped but soon he smiled when she gave him a mischievous wink.

Tim took a hold of Ducky's wheelchair and walked his friend up the only pier to the waiting Caledonian MacBrayne ferry that would take them to the Scottish mainland, the Tìr Mòr.

No words were spoken between the two men, but they both thought it was nice to be on their way home again and bid their farewell to this place where myths and legends had withstood the test of time.

Aine stared after them and then walked onto the pier from where she would watch them, as the Clansman ferry steadily moved away from the quayside and soon left Lochboisdale astern, bound for Oban.

The last she'd seen of Tim was him leaning on the railing, his green gaze locked on her until he straightened and pulled his coat closer around him against the morning chill.

It didn't come as a surprise to her when, suddenly, a mist seemed to rise out of nowhere to envelope the ferry, obliterating it.

Aine smiled. Manannàn's Cloak... It was just another trick from the Keeper of the Mist.

A mystic haar...

**~ The End ~**

**- -.-. -. . .**

"He is long-dead, however; no appearance of Manannan has been recorded in living memory."

_Katherine Briggs, The Fairies in Tradition and Literature_

Really?

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><p><strong>This may be the end, but it's never too late to offer feedback. I still like to improve my writing and your impressions are vital. How else can I know what needs to be changed? I'm not great in writing conversations: blame that to my not mastering English well enough to work out those typical conversations our characters use, and I'm loathe to use a beta to help me out there.<strong>


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